When the sun descendeth and the sky turneth purple with the dying light, we gather to pour the evening offering and to sing hymns to the gods. The Ṛbhus are summoned now, for this hour is theirs — the hour of transition, when day giveth way to night and the boundary between worlds groweth thin.

Come, O Ṛbhus, to the sacred fire! Receive the sweetened butter and the pressed Soma that we offer. The priests do raise their voices in your honour, celebrating that marvellous ascension when ye ceased to be mortal and entered into the imperishable realm of the devas. Your chariots are yoked; your weapons shine; your place at the table of the gods is eternally secure.

In this twilight hour, we remember your journey. Born of human stock, raised in labour and in craft, perfected through unwearying effort, ye did at last touch the threshold of divinity itself. And the gods did recognize you not as strangers but as kinfolk, for ye had proven your worth not through blood but through deed.

The evening star appeareth now, steady and bright, guiding the wanderer home. So too do ye, O Ṛbhus, serve as guide and beacon to all mortals who aspire to transcend their base condition. Your light shineth in the gathering dusk, showing that the path is not closed, that the gates are not barred, that even one born of flesh and clay may rise to sit among the immortals.

Accept our praise, O wondrous ones! Grant us the cunning you possess, the steadfastness of purpose, the vision to see what others cannot perceive. And when our time cometh, remember that we too sought to honour the sacred craft of making, and lift us up from the dust as ye have been lifted.