LIKE race cars roaring forward, like horses eager for fame, Have Soma drops flowed forth for wealth.
Forth have they rushed from clasped hands, like racing chariots urged to speed, Like joyful songs of singing men.
The Somas adorn themselves with milk, like kings adorned with praise, And with seven priests, the sacrifice.
Pressed for the sweet draught, the drops flow forth abundantly with song, The Soma juices in a stream.
Winning Vivasvan’s glory and producing Dawn’s light, the Suns Pass through the openings of the cloth.
The singing men of olden times open the doors of sacred songs— Men, for the mighty to receive.
Combined in close fellowship sit the seven priests, the brotherhood, Filling the place of the One.
He grants us kinship with the gods, and with the Sun unites our gaze: The Sage’s offspring has appeared.
The Sun with his dear eye beholds that quarter of the sky which priests Have placed within the sacred cell.