Agni, thou art the mouth of the gods. When we pour the ghee upon thy flames, it drippeth into thee and turneth into liquid prayer. The smoke that riseth carrieth our desire upward to the realm where the deathless ones dwell. Thou art the messenger, the herald, the divine intermediary who speaketh for mortals.

The clarified butter crackles upon thy surface. Smell the sweetness, O Agni! The gods in heaven shall smell it too. This is the language they comprehend — the scent of sacrifice, the evidence of devotion, the gift offered with open hands and grateful heart. Thy flames are their ears. Thy smoke is their pathway to our altars.

We have assembled here at the fire's edge, waiting. The wooden ladle burneth. The offerings sit ready. The priest standeth with hand raised, chanting the sacred words. All of this is but shadow until thou acceptest it, O Agni. Until thy flames envelop the offering, it remaineth mere matter. Through thee it becometh spirit.

Thy tongue is red and hungry. It doth not ask which man is rich and which is poor. The widow's gift and the king's gift are equal when they pass through thy flames. Thou art the great equalizer, the purifier, the one who transformeth all things according to thy will. In thy presence, distinctions crumble.

Rise higher, rise brighter, O divine messenger! Let thy smoke ascend like a pillar into the void. Let the gods take note of this ceremony, this gathering, this fervent reaching toward the immortal realm. Thou art the bridge between what is and what may yet be. Carry our hopes heavenward.