We have pressed the soma! We have prepared it with our hands! The sacred juice floweth in the bowl, golden and sweet-scented, mingling with milk and honey. Now cometh Indra to drink.

When he drinketh of this soma, O gods, what transformations occur! His body swelleth with divine energy. His eyes blazeth like the sun itself. The very air around him crackles and hummeth with power. His limbs become as towers of muscle. His breath shaketh the heavens.

The soma that we offer is not a common drink. Nay — it is the fluid of immortality itself. In it dwelleth the ecstasy of the gods. When Indra drinketh deep, he becometh one with the cosmic force. He is no longer merely a god among gods — he is the pulse of existence, the thundering heart of all that is.

He drinketh once, and the heavens tremble. He drinketh a second time, and the earth shaketh. He drinketh a third time, and all the worlds are shaken to their foundations. His body expandeth. His power groweth infinite. The boundaries between himself and the cosmos dissolve.

In that state of ecstatic union with the soma, Indra performeth his mightiest deeds. It is in that condition that he smote Vṛtra. It is in that condition that he propped apart the sky and the earth. It is in that condition that his thunderbolt becometh invincible, capable of piercing any armor, shattering any stronghold.

The soma maketh him what he is — not merely mighty, but divine in the fullest sense. Not merely powerful, but transcendent. Not merely a warrior, but the very embodiment of cosmic force.

We mortals, who drinketh not of the soma, can only glimpse the shadow of what Indra experienceth when he drinketh. Yet even that glimpse filleth us with wonder and awe. How can we praise thee adequately, O soma-drinker? Thou art beyond all praise.