Swiftly doth Soma course, as high-born truth itself, whirling through the filter, shattering the fiends, ever in search of the gods.

When he driveth toward the prize, like a hundred toiling streams, he entereth into league with Indra.

The ten maidens cry aloud to thee, as doth a maiden call unto her love.
Thou art made fair, O Soma, for the winning.

Thou, O sweet-flowing drop, flow forth for Indra, yea, for Viṣṇu too.
Shield thou the noble-hearted, the singers of praise, from the narrow and perilous way.