The swift-flowing soma hath surged in streams of honeyed joy, rushing forth toward all our songs and lays.

The ancient Āyus have set their feet upon a newer path— they have brought forth the sun, that it might shine upon the world.

Come unto us, thou self-cleansing one, and bring the wealth of the ungodly stranger into our hands.
Let there be refreshment, and let there be offspring.

The soma and the Āyus cleanse themselves anew, turning to a draught of gladness, toward the vessel that drippeth with honeyed dew.

Steadily doth soma run, drawing unto itself the strength of Indra, granting bold sons and warding off all curses.

Thou dost cleanse thyself, O Soma, for Indra and the gods, to be their common delight.

O drop divine, thou strivest to win the meed.

When Indra drank thy gladdening draughts, he shattered all that none could withstand— and so shall he shatter them again.