Forth go the soma-draughts, hearkening to the breath of song, as billows of water roll, toward the wooden cups as wild bulls toward the thicket.

To the cups they’ve streamed, brown and bright with sheen, in a flood of truth, toward the reward of kine.

Pressed for Indra and Vāyu, for Varuṇa and the storm-lords, for Viṣṇu—lo, the soma hasteneth in might.

Three voices rise on high, the milk-kine cry aloud, and the tawny one goeth on in endless roar.

The holy sayings, young and bold, mothers of truth, have lowed to him in longing— they tend the babe of the heavens with care.

Soma, draw for us four seas of riches from every side, yea, in their thousands— bring them in thy holy cleansing.