A bull art thou, O Soma, a radiant might— a bull who heedeth his own bold laws, O god.

As bull thou hast laid thine own foundations firm.

Thine is the strength of bulls, O bull;
thy cup is bull-like, thy draught a bull’s delight.
Yea truly, O bull, thou art in sooth a bull.

Thou neighest like a steed, O bull.
Surround the kine, surround the steeds, O drop divine; unlock the doors of wealth for us.

The juices have rushed forth in yearning, seeking kine, seeking steeds, and swift-borne heroes—bright, unclouded streams.

Adorned by the seekers of truth, tended with care by worshipful hands,
they cleanse themselves upon the fleece of sheep.

Let all blessings—of sky, of earth, and of the mid-realm— be borne to us as these bright Soma-drops purify themselves.

O thou who knowest all, thy streams have burst forth like rays of the sun in their coursing.

A beacon thou makest, O Soma, rushing from heaven toward all things formed.
Thou swellest like the sea.

Being urged, thou sendest forth thy speech— thou who growest in thy cleansing.

Thou roarest like the god of the sun.

The dear and shining one is now made pure, fashioned by the thoughts of seers.

As a charioteer sets loose his steed, so hath it loosed its wave.

Thy wave, in godward chase, hath circled through the strainer,
seated upon the womb of truth.

Enter our strainer, O gladdening draught, best in the chase of gods, O drop— come, for Indra to drink.

Be cleansed in the running stream for refreshment, combed by the inspired ones; draw near with thy light to the herds, O drop.

Made pure, give breadth and food to the folk, thou who thirstest for song— when loosed into the milk-blend, O tawny-hued one.

Purified for the gods’ pursuit, hasten to thy tryst with Indra,
flashing, led by the seekers of prize.

Urged forward, the quickening drops, sped by the mind that sees,
have surged unto the sea.

Ceaselessly combed, the lively drops have come unbidden to the sea—
to the womb of truth.

Turned to our cause, with thy strength gather all boons around us.
Guard for us a haven strong with heroes.

Etaśa, the draught-horse, measureth his pace, yoked by the singers, when he is poured into the sea.

When the swift one sitteth upon the golden womb of truth, he leaveth behind the heedless.

The seekers have lifted their cry to him; the wise long to behold him.

But the unknowing sink away.

For Indra with the Maruts, O drop, make thyself pure, O sweetest one,
to sit upon the womb of truth.

The bards who find the speech, the knower-rites, adorn thee with their craft; the Āyus groom thee limb to limb.

Mitra, Aryaman, and Varuṇa drink thy sap, O poet divine, and so too the Maruts, when thou art made pure.

Thou, O Soma, in thy cleansing sendest forth speech that hearkeneth to the muse, and bringeth a thousand gifts, O drop.

Yea, speech that bringeth a thousand boons, armed for strife and bounty—

O Soma, made pure, bring thou that hither.

Purified, O drop, oft-invoked of nations, beloved, go thou into the sea.

Clad with ever-springing light, thy form ringed round with song—
both the clear draught and that commingled with kine.

Impelled and led by the drivers, the prize-seeker strides unto the prize, perched like hawks on the womb of truth.

Both sundered and joined, O Soma, as heaven’s bard,
make thyself clean for well-being and for the sun to be seen.