These fleet-flowing soma draughts have been sped forth, as prize-chariots loosed from the line, their surging sent in surges—

They rush abroad like the winds, like the downpour of Parjanya,
flitting as they please like the flickers of flame.

These clear-purged juices, mingled with curds, mindful of the poet’s breath, have soaked our inmost sight with fire-born song.

These deathless ones, once trimmed and tended, falter not in their running, pressing on to find the ways through the wind-swept space.

Widening their goings, they have filled
the backs of both world-halves, and this loftiest sky-road.

They have touched the topmost strand, where it lieth drawn along the slopes—
and that which lieth higher yet.

Thou, O Soma, took’st from the Paṇis the wealth of kine; thou roaredst forth toward the stretched gold-thread.