They are let loose to seek the gods, like steeds that bring reward, rushing forth, waxed strong upon the heights of the hills.

The drops, made fair as a maid decked with her father’s gifts, the draughts of soma are loosed to Vāyu’s share.

These streams of soma, these drops of gladness, pressed in the cup, bring joy and might to Indra and his rites.

Wash it well, ye kindly hands; take up the twain— the stirred and the clear— blend the rousing draught with kine.

Make thyself pure, thou prize-winner, thou bringer of great gifts, and lead us on the way, O Soma.

The ten fingers tend this one most meet to tend— the self-cleansing draught, delight of Indra, joy’s own brew.