In billowy surge he is loosed, as at a course for chariots—the first and fire-kindled sage, keen of ken.
The ten sister-threads urge on the draught-steed that rideth the sheep’s broad back toward the sacred seats.

Chasing the heavenly race, the shining drop is pressed upon the fleece by poet-sons of Nahus.
Ever groomed to fare forth by mortal hands, the deathless drop is borne by sheep, by kine, by racing streams.

The Bull that roareth again and again unto the Bull, unto Indra—the healing herb, self-cleansed for him, hasteth to the cow’s bright, glistering milk.
A bard well-versed in speech, the Sun ranges far across the tender fleece, by a thousand stainless paths.

Rend even the deep-entrenched strongholds of the fiend. While thou art purged, O drop, lay bare the spoils of triumph.
Hew from on high with thy driving blade the leader who drew those foemen hither from afar and now made near.

As in ancient days, carve forward-facing ways for our new-born song, O thou fulfiller of all desires.
High treasures, hard for the grasping to snare—may we win them of thee, thou many-handed, master of myriad herds.

Thus refined, bestow on us the waters, the golden sun, and cattle; give us large progeny and posterity, Fortune, wide-flung lordship, and guiding lights, O Soma—grant that long we may behold the shining sun.