WHERE the broad base stone stands tall to squeeze the juice, O Indra, drink with thirsty heart the drops that mortar spits.
WHERE, like wide hips, the pressing plates are placed, O Indra, drink with thirsty heart the drops that mortar spits.
WHERE the woman marks and leans the pestle’s steady rise and fall, O Indra, drink with thirsty heart the drops that mortar spits.
WHERE, like reins guiding a horse, they tie the churn’s staff with ropes, O Indra, drink with thirsty heart the drops that mortar spits.
IF indeed in every home you stand for work, Mortar, Here let your purest sound ring out, loud as conquerors’ drums.
O Sovereign of the Forest, as the breeze softly blows before you, Mortar, for Indra press forth Soma juice that he may drink.
BEST strength-givers, you spread wide your jaws, O Sacrificial Tools, Like two stallions chomping grass.
YOU Sovereigns of the Forest, both swift, with swift presses today Press sweet Soma juice for Indra’s drink.
TAKE up in cups what remains: the Soma on the filter pour, And on the ox-hide set the dregs.