Begetting the shining halls of heaven, begetting the sun midst the waters, He clotheth himself in kine, in waters—the tawny-hued one— By an elder thought, a god from gods,
He cleanseth himself in the running stream, when he is pressed.

For the ever-rising lord of might to gain his due, they strain and cleanse the soma with a thousand faces.

He draweth forth his long-stored milk, and is poured round through the woolen sieve; with roar he begetteth the gods anew.

Toward all things yearned for, toward gods grown strong by truth, Soma doth hasten as he is made pure.

O Soma, when thou art pressed, bring unto us riches— in kine, in heroes, in steeds and spoil— and lofty draughts that lift the soul as thou art purged.