It purifieth itself—the flood of Soma, whose gaze is upon mankind. With truth he calleth the gods down from the heights.
With the bellow of Bṛhaspati he hath burst forth; like the seas, the waters enfold the pressings.

Thou, O prize-bearer, for whom the kine have lowed—shining, thou ascendest the hammered cup.
Stretching forth the life-days of the generous, and their high renown, thou, O Soma, dost cleanse thyself in bullish mirth for Indra.

The most gladdening flow cleanseth itself in the mouth of Indra, clothed in goodly milk, for glory’s sake.
He stretcheth himself forth, turned to all that liveth.
Sportful, the tawny, bullish steed doth stream.

Thee, sweetest of all, do men draw forth for the gods; thee of a thousand streams do ten fingers milk.
O Soma, stirred by men, pressed with stone, by thy cleansing bring thou the gods to this place—thou who winnest in thousands.

Thee, honeyed one, do hands draw with stones; thee, bull among draughts, do ten fingers milk from the waters.
Rousing Indra and the godly host, O Soma, purifying thyself, thou rushest as the wave of a river.