The soma juices run their course—the self-cleansing drops flow forth.
Made ready, they are adorned amid the waters.

The kine hasten unto them, as streams run down a slope.
Purified in their going, they draw nigh unto Indra.

Thou runnest forth, O self-cleansing Soma, for Indra’s draught.
Held by men’s hands, thou art led through the woven sieve.

Bring delight to the high-hearted, O Soma—cleanse thyself for him who layeth low the borders, thou who art hailed as victor.

O drop, when crushed 'neath the stones,
thou circlest the sieve, made meet for Indra’s base.

Cleanse thyself, thou breaker of bars, worthy of song, bright, spotless, and true in thy path.

Bright and pure, he is hailed as Soma—he of the honeyed pressing, who seeketh the gods and striketh down the speakers of ill.