O Agni, thou whose tongues number seven, each one more brilliant than the last, each one bearing its own cry of exultation unto the heavens—we marvel at thy manifold splendor. Thy flames do not ascend in uniformity, but rather in a glorious profusion of colors and forms, a dance of light that speaks to the infinite complexity of thy nature.

The red tongue devoureth wood and stubble, transforming them into ash and memory. The golden tongue riseth highest, reaching toward the sun itself as though to claim kinship with that greater flame. The blue tongue flickers swift and subtle, catching at the heart of the offering and bearing it aloft. The purple tongue twisteth and writeth like the body of the sacred serpent. The white tongue illuminates all that lieth in darkness, revealing that which was hidden. The orange tongue spreadeth forth like the wings of the heavenly eagle. The black tongue, deepest and most mysterious, speaketh of the mysteries that even the gods do not fully fathom.

Each tongue hath its own voice, its own song, yet all sing in harmony a single melody of transformation and ascension. They are as the strings of the celestial lyre, each vibrating at its own frequency, yet producing together a music most sublime.

Thou art not a simple thing, O Agni, but rather a cosmos unto thyself, infinite in thy expressions, eternal in thy manifestations. Those who think they understand thee are proven fools. Those who approach thee with humble reverence begin to glimpse the vastness of thy nature. Thou art older than thought, more powerful than kingdoms, more generous than the ocean.

O seven-tongued one, consume our offerings. Accept our praises. Let thy manifold flames carry our prayers unto the gods who dwell in the regions beyond mortal sight, and let them answer us according to thy wisdom and their grace.