Like rivers rushing headlong down the slope, breaking all that bars their way, the swift soma streams have been loosed in tumult and speed.

As they are crushed, the shining drops fall like rain upon the earth, and all their flood floweth to Indra, the god of might.

The draught of rapture, the gladdening soma, runneth to the straining-cloth beyond the surge of waves, cleaving the fiends asunder, ever yearning toward the gods.

He darteth into the tubs; he is cast round the sieve, waxing strong through hymn and rite in the holy feasts.

Thou burnest past the three bright realms, as the sun that riseth to the heights, O Soma.

Thou sendest speech abroad and stirrest it onward like the sun’s own beam.

The seers, the song-smiths, have lifted their voice before the altar’s flame, ever gazing upon their dear delight.

The men of vision, seeking aid, do smooth and deck thee, prize-gaining steed, with their wise craft, for the council of the gods.

Flow thou in sweetness, after the honeyed course.
Thou, keen of edge, hast taken thy seat— a joy to drink for the sake of truth.