Cleanse thyself swiftly through the sieve, O Soma, pursuing the gods in thy flight.

As a bull of might, enter into Indra, O golden drop.

Curl thyself toward great delight, O shining one, brightest bull beneath heaven’s roof.

Be steadfast upon thy mother’s womb.

The stream of the pressed, the wise in rite, hath milked its own sweet honey.

With firm will he hath clad himself in the waters.

The mighty waters, the rivers themselves, hasten after thee, O great one, when thou clothest thyself in the kine.

The sea is arrayed in the waters, that pillar and upholdment of heaven—
Soma through the filter, seeking our kind.

The tawny bull hath bellowed aloud;
the great one, fair as a friend to behold, shines forth with the sun in his path.

O drop, thy might doth groom the zealous songs— the songs that in turn do make thee fair, prepared for rapture.

We beseech thee, thou who makest the broad way, bring us the fire of delight.

To thee belongeth great song and praise.

For our sake, O drop, in thy search for Indra, cleanse thyself in a stream of honey, like Parjanya, the rain-bringer.

O drop, thou art bringer of kine, of men, of steeds, of spoil; thou art the ancient form of the holy gift.