In sweetest and most gladdening stream flow pure, O Soma, on thy way,
Pressed out for Indra, for his drink.
Fiend-queller, Friend of all men, he hath with the wood attained unto
His place, his iron-fashioned home.
Be thou best Vṛitra-slayer, best granter of bliss, most liberal:
Promote our wealthy princes’ gifts.
Flow onward with thy juice unto the banquet of the Mighty Gods:
Flow hither for our strength and fame.
O Indu, we draw nigh to thee, with this one object day by day:
To thee alone our prayers are said.
By means of this eternal fleece may Sūrya’s Daughter purify
Thy Soma that is foaming forth.
Ten sister maids of slender form seize him within the press and hold
Him firmly on the final day.
The virgins send him forth: they blow the the skin musician-like and fuse
The triple foe-repelling meath.
Inviolable milch-kine round about him blend for Indra’s drink,
The fresh young Soma with their milk.
In the wild raptures of this draught, Indra slays all the Vṛitras: he,
The Hero, pours his wealth on us.
Soma, flow on, inviting Gods, speed to the purifying cloth:
Pass into Indra, as a Bull.
As mighty food speed hitherward, Indu, as a most splendid Steer:
Sit in thy place as one with strength.
The well-loved meath was made to flow, the stream of the creative juice:
The Sage drew waters to himself.