They smooth the tawny one, the fallow bay, as though yoking a chestnut steed.
Soma is anointed with kine’s milk in the basin.
When his voice is lifted, the ring of many-hearted friends—howe’er many— speed him onward with the strength of their thought.

The many seers speak as one, their speech aflame, when they have poured the soma into Indra’s belly.

The deft-handed men adorn him—the sweet, longed-for honey— with the ten that spring from one nest.

He ceaseth not, but passeth beyond the strainer, to the kine, o’er the beloved low of the Sun-Maiden’s voice.

As he willed it, the vinaṃgr̥sa fastened it to him; he dwelleth among the twin-born, gentle sisters.

Washed by men, pressed by the stones, he resteth on the sacred grass—the kine’s own lord, from of old the drop of the rite’s season.
With Abundance beside him, and the blessing of Manu’s offering, shining, clear-seeing, he cleanseth himself for thee, O Indra.

Urged by the two arms of men, streaming forth in his own way, Soma purifieth himself for thee, O Indra.

He hath wrought their will; he hath seized the thought entire at the rite.
As a bird in the wood he sitteth, the tawny one, in the two beakers of drink.

They milk the roaring, deathless plant—
the god-sages draw forth the poet.
Kine and thoughts, a never-ending line, ever newborn, go unto him in the womb, the seat of truth.

On earth’s navel is the stanchion of the great heaven; in the water’s swell and midst the rivers he is bathed.

Indra’s mace he is, the bull rich in show and might— Soma, the rousing draught, doth purify himself in ways the heart doth love.

Cleanse thyself o’er the whole of this earth, as thou toilest for the singer and the rinsing hand, thou strong-hearted one.

Deal us not out from the share of thy good:
may golden wealth fall thick upon our halls.

Bring now, O drop, a hundredfold of steeds, a thousandfold of kine and gold.

Pour forth great draughts of height and richness.
Give heed to our song, O self-cleansing one.