The poet of the heavens maketh the round of his own lifebreath, driven betwixt his two granddaughters, even as he is pressed—he whose heart is bent to song.

Thou, delight of the praiseworthy dwelling, drawest ever onward toward the guileless kindred of the gods, pursuing them in thy sweetest chase.

He, their blazing son, made his two mothers to shine— he newborn, and they likewise new-born, he mighty, and they mighty, waxing through the power of truth.

Urged by seven wise stirrings of mind, he awakened the guileless rivers,
they who upheld him as the single eye.

They set up the youth as ruler and unbreaking among the great ones; they set the drop, O Indra, under thy charge.

The deathless steed beholdeth the seven as he draweth; Krivi hath gladdened the goddesses with his gift.

Lend us thy hand in our holy rites, O strong one.
The shades of night must be withstood, O Soma.
Thou shalt go on smiting them, thou who art ever made pure.

Now make the ways of our newer and newer song to find their mark. Kindle the lights again as in times of old.

Thou who cleansest thyself, grant great renown, the cow and the horse with warriors at their side.

Win thou wisdom—win thou the sun.