O Agni, thou art beautiful beyond utterance! The Bhāradvājas, skilled in praise, struggle to find words worthy of thy form. Yet we sing, for to remain silent would be a greater transgression than to speak imperfectly of thee.

Behold how thou dwellest in the wood before the kindling! Invisible, yet present—waiting, breathing—as a child sleeps before the dawn. Then the striker of the flame awakens thee, and thou springest forth in thy terrible and radiant glory. Thy seven tongues flicker and coil like serpents tasting the air. Red, orange, blue—each tongue a different prayer.

Thy face shines brighter than the sun at midday. Thy hair crackles and dances as the sacred syllables dance upon the lips of the priest. The smoke that rises from thee is the visible breath of the cosmos ascending toward the infinite. In that smoke, we see our own prayers transformed and lifted beyond the comprehension of mortal sense.

Thou art clothed in light, O Agni! Thy raiment is the flame itself, changing, never still, ever-living. The heat that emanates from thy being causes the earth to tremble and the sky to attend. Mitra and Varuṇa pause in their counsel to behold thee.

We bow before thy beauty, O sacred fire. The Bhāradvājas have no offering grand enough, no hymn magnificent enough, to properly honor what thou art. Yet we offer what we have—our voice, our breath, our reverent adoration. Accept this song as the offering of a people humbled by thy splendor.