Purify thyself, thou who bringest craft to its fullness, that the gods may drink, O tawny one— the gladdening draught for the Storm-lords and for Vāyu.

Self-cleansing art thou, borne on the wings of insight, ever roaring toward thy hidden place— enter Vāyu as the rite declareth.

The bull is made fair in the sight of the gods, the beloved bard within his secret hold, breaker of bars, swiftest in the gods’ chase.

Clad in all forms, becoming pure, the sweet one fareth onward
where the deathless take their thrones.

Ruddy Soma, begetter of song, maketh himself clean, with the Āyus at his side, setting forth to Indra with a poet’s aim.

Cleanse thyself in the stream, in the sieve, thou most rousing singer, to rest within the womb of holy song.