He is loosed like a steed loosed to run the course, poured through the filter, pressed into the twin cups.

The victor hath set foot upon the end-line.

As a keen-eyed draught-horse, O Soma, cleanse thyself, pursuing the gods past the sieve, onward to the vat that drippeth with honey.

O thou ancient, self-cleansing one, make the lights shine out before us;
drive us toward will, and toward craft.

Made fair by those who seek what is true, tended by the twin hands, he purifieth himself in the wool of the sheep.

Let all good things be his who is devout— of heaven, of earth, and of the space between— may Soma bring them as he maketh himself pure.

O Soma, thou ridest the spine of the sky, seeking kine, seeking steeds, seeking heroes,

O thou lord of might.