O Soma, whatever shining good, whether of the heavens or of the earth, is meet for song— bring thou that hither as thou art made pure.

For thou and Indra both are lords of light and kine; show forth thy mastery, and cause our sight to grow.

The bull, made pure among the folk of life, doth thunder o’er the sacred grass— though as a pale bay steed, he hath taken rest upon his womb.

Our far-seeing words have roared across the seed of the bull, as the mothers have over their calf, their son.

Shall he indeed plant seed in those dames who long for a bull, as he is being made pure— in those who yield the shining milk?

Win thou the hearts of those who stand apart, but lay dread upon our foes.
O self-cleansing one, find us wealth.

Soma, break the bull-strength of our foe—his stormful wrath, his might— be he far off or near at hand.