Afflicted in my skin, with itch and sore malady—O Indra, see me here—I took the soma plant and crushed it twixt my teeth. The juices I did press out, and offered unto thee, that thou mightst heed my call and heal the wound that vexeth me.

So prithee, drink of this pressed draught, O mightiest god; let it uplift thy heart as once it hath uplifted mine. For I, a woman low and broken, bring to thee what neither king nor priest could offer—my own flesh's bitter remedy, given in faith and need.

Thou who dost master all the worlds, who smashest strongholds with thy hand—canst thou not see the beauty that once was mine? The skin that was as lotus-petal, smooth and fair, hath turned to wrinkled bark. Yet still I come. Still do I hold the cup for thee.

Look upon me, Indra; hear my voice that riseth from no wealth of herds or gold, but from the truth of my own suffering. I have nothing else to give—only this faith, only this soma, only the trembling hope that thou wilt turn thy face toward one so lowly.

And he doth hear. The god doth drink. His lightning breaks across the sky, and in that moment—in that sacred breaking—the poison drains. The itching ceases. My skin grows whole again, bright and fair as it was in days long gone.

Now do I stand before all men renewed. My form is beauteous once more, and all who gaze upon me marvel at the work of Indra. I am whole because I dared to press the soma and to speak my need unto the thunderer.

O god, accept forever the praise of this woman's heart. Thou hast proven that even the humblest may approach thee when the truth doth fill their cup.