From the treasure-house of heaven ye release the waters! Mitra-Varuṇa, ye masters of the rain, the flood, the river's surge. The clouds hang heavy with thy gifts; the earth drinketh deep and groweth fertile. Behold the grains that rise from the moistened soil—is this not thy work?

Winter drieth the land; the fields become as dust. The herds cry out in thirst; the women weep for water. Then thou, O Varuṇa, dost open the floodgates of the sky. The rain falleth, the streams run full, life returneth. The cattle fatten; the seeds sprout; the world is reborn.

Yet thou givest water in measure, O wise one! Too much, and the rivers swell to destroy; too little, and the earth cracketh. But thy hand holdeth the balance true. Thy cosmic governance maintaineth the middle path. By thy wisdom, the seasons turn; by thy will, the waters flow where they are needed.

We praise thee, masters of the rain! Ye who givest drink to the thirsty earth, who fillest the well-springs and the cisterns of men. Our herds depend upon thy mercy; our fields await thy blessing. Without thee, the world would be as ash.

Accept our offerings, O Mitra! Accept our hymn, O Varuṇa! Let thy rains come in their season. Bless the fields of the faithful; let drought fall upon the lands of the wicked. Teach us to use thy waters wisely, to neither waste nor hoard thy gifts. Let justice flow as the rivers flow, eternal and life-giving.