His streams have broken forth, O storm-born one, and flow as they will into the cleansing veil.
Whilst he is made pure, he sendeth forth his voice.

The draught, urged on by the pressers' hand, and finely trimmed, ever roareth— He lifteth a cry that is meet for Indra’s ears.

Draw to our lot the stormful might that layeth low the strength of men— That longed-for power of champions, when thou dost cleanse thyself in the running brook, O Soma.

Soma, cleansing himself in the stream, hath flowed beyond the sieve and setteth himself in the cups of wood, his seat now taken.

They urge thee on, O tawny one most sweet, amid the waters with the pounding stones— A draught for Indra to quaff, O precious drop.

Bruise forth the sweetest Soma for Indra of the heavy hand— The dear, rousing draught for his host of warriors.