In cleansing thyself, O Soma, bring us riches by the thousand, and a host of noble heroes; make firm our claims to renown.

Thou swellest with refreshment and meat; most gladdening to Indra, thou sittest now within the cups.

For Indra and for Vishnu is Soma pressed and poured into the tub; let it be sweet as honey for Vāyu.

These swift brown streams have surged through the woolen mesh— Soma’s juices, flowing in the path of truth.

Upholding Indra, crossing the waters, Aryan-making, thou breakest the hold of the giftless.

Pressed and poured, the brown drops speed to Indra’s own domain— the sacred juice, ever his.

Cleanse thyself in the very stream with which thou madest the sun to shine, and set a-going the waters of Manu.

Etaśa, steed of the Sun, he hath yoked, purifying himself in Manu’s sight, to ride the mid-realm’s path.

Yea, these ten bright mares of the Sun he hath yoked to draw thee, O drop divine, as thou criest, “To Indra I go.”

Here, round about, sprinkle the Soma pressed for Vāyu— the song-gift, the joy-bringer to Indra—upon the woolen fleece.

O self-cleansing Soma, win for us treasure none may match, hard to grasp for the longing heart.

Hasten thou toward wealth in thousands—of kine, of steeds, toward the prize of glory and good name.

Like the Sun-lord purifieth he, pressed by stones, and layeth his strength in the tub.

These clear streams, truth-flowing, have coursed through Aryan lands unto the prize of kine.

Pressed for Indra the mace-lord, the Soma, mingled with curds, hath streamed through the strainer white.

O Soma, most honey-sweet, speed into the filter for our gain, glad draught that best seeketh the gods.

Him do the Āyus bathe in the river-floods— the tawny prize-seeker, the joy of Indra.

Cleanse thyself, O Soma, and bring us heaps of gold, of steeds, of heroes—bring us the prize of kine.

As men sprinkle a prize-seeking horse ere the race is run, so do thou, prize-seeking Soma, circle down upon the fleece—most honeyed for Indra.

The seers, seeking aid, with deep insight anoint the sage worthy to be adorned.
The bull cometh forth roaring evermore.

To the bull who crosses waters, to Soma, in the stream of truth, the seers cry aloud in one voice with thought and vision.

Cleanse thyself, O god, with the Āyus about thee.
Let thy gladdening draught reach unto Indra; rise to Vāyu as the law ordaineth.

O self-purging Soma, thou pourest down fame-worthy wealth; as the beloved, enter the sea.

Breaking the prideful, thou cleansest thyself, finding thy will; thou thrillest with might, O Soma.

Cast out those who seek not the gods.

The self-cleansing Soma-streams, the clear drops, have flowed toward all the works of the poet’s craft.

The swift, bright, self-purging drops have surged, rending asunder all hatreds.

They have leapt from the heavens, from the mid-realm, and settled upon the back of the earth.

In thy stream, O Soma drop, make thyself pure; smite all wrongs, drive out the fiends, thou of good resolve.

Crushing the fiendish, Soma, roar on in thy storming brilliance.

Within us, O drop divine, fix the goods—heavenly, earthly, and all things most dearly prized.