In the tree adorned with lush leaves where Yama drinks with the gods, The Father, Master of the house, nurtures with love our ancient ancestors.
I looked at him who cherishes those old men, At him who walks the dark path and then I long for this again.
You ride, though unseen, Child, in the new, wheelless chariot That you have crafted mentally, one-poled yet turning every way.
The chariot you've made to roll hitherward from the sages, Child! This has the Sāman followed close, hence, laid together on a ship.
Who was the father of the child? Who made the chariot roll away? Who will this day declare to us how the funeral gift was made?
When the funeral gift was placed, straightaway the flame appeared. A depth extended in the front: a passage out was made behind.
Here is the seat where Yama dwells, what's called the home of gods: Here minstrels blow the flute for him, here he is glorified with songs.