Lo, this one—the well-lauded poet—spilleth o’er into the sieve, smiting down all that faileth, even as he is made clean.

He who hath won the sun is poured forth on every side for Indra and for Vāyu, within the filter— he who bringeth craft unto its ripening.

Led he is by men through the sieve—
the crown of heaven, the bull, the crushed soma in its wooden bowls, knowing all, gaining all.

He hath made a great cry while he cleanseth himself, seeking kine, seeking gold— the draught that overcometh all, and shall not be overthrown.

He runneth with the sun, being cleansed in the height; in the filter he is the gladdening draught of gladness.

He, the wild tawny bull, hath flowed through the mid-realm unto Indra—yea, the drop that is being made pure.