The King, begetting speech, hath poured himself forth; clad in the waters, he seeketh the kine.

The ewe taketh his blemish; the stems clinging to his flesh.
Washed clean, he maketh way to his tryst with the gods.

For Indra, O Soma, men pour thee round in circle; as a wave that draweth the eyes of all, as a bard, thou art driven to the wood, for thy paths are many, and a thousand pale bay steeds bide in the cups.

The sea-born Apsarases, dwelling within, have streamed toward thee, O Soma of the awoken mind.
They goad thee on, breaker of the walled stead; they entreat the deathless, self-cleansing one for his favor.

He that winneth cows for us, and chariots, and gold; that gaineth sun and water, and thousands besides—

Soma doth cleanse himself, whom the gods have chosen as their rousing draught, the fairest red drop, the very delight of delight.

O Soma, in thy purging thou rushest to find us, bringing these hoards to life.

Lay low the foe nearby and afar;
make us wide field and heart untroubled.