While being pressed, the soma flows roar as chariots on the charge, seeking glory as do steeds in battle, and they surge forth in quest of wealth.

Driven as chariots are driven, they speed betwixt the hands of the priest; their winnings like those of warriors sure in triumph.

As kings by praise are anointed with kine, so are the soma draughts adorned; like the rite itself, ordained by the sacred seven.

With might and song they thunder, pressed for bliss—the shining drops whirl in streams, rushing headlong.

They have won the portion of Vivasvant, and bring forth the gift of Dawn; the Suns stretch wide their golden limbs across the gleaming fleece.

The seers of old flung wide the doors of poetic mind—the Ayus let loose for the bull's wild wrath.

Together they sit, the Hotars and their seven kin, guiding the path of the lone one with care and craft.

He hath fastened his navel unto ours, his eye unto the sun; he hath given to the poet offspring, as milk is giv’n from the breast.

Along his beloved tracks and the road of the heavens—hid by the Adhvaryus—he casteth his gaze with the sun's own eye.