To Indra, the Mighty One, may these golden juices reach, Flowing quickly, they find the light of heaven.
This juice flows swiftly for Indra, for his sustenance. Soma remembers the Conqueror, as he knows.
May Indra gain from him the grasp that gathers spoils, And wield the thunderbolt, bringing waters.
Vigilant for Indra, thou Soma, run swiftly on: Bring here splendid strength that finds the light of heaven.
May you, all beautiful, purify the mighty juice, Path-maker, far-seeing, with a thousand ways.
Best finder of prosperity for us, rich in sweets for Gods, Proceed loudly roaring on a thousand paths.
O Indu, with your streams, flow mightily for the Gods: Rich in mead, Soma, take your place in our beaker.
Your drops that swim in water have raised Indra to delight: The Gods have drunk you up for immortality.
Stream opulence to us, ye drops of Soma, pressed and pure, Pouring down rain from heaven in hoods, and finding light.
While filtered, with his wave flows through the wool of the sheep, Shouting while purified before the voice of song.
With songs they send the Mighty One, sporting in wood, above the fleece: Our psalms have glorified him of the triple height.
He has been loosed into jars, like an impetuous steed for war, Lifting up his voice, while filtered, gliding on.
Gold-hued and lovely in his course, through tangles of the wool he flows, And pours heroic fame upon the worshippers.
Flow thus, a faithful votary: the streams of mead have been released. Thou comest to the filter, singing, from each side.