Pour the Soma drops to Indra, rich and sweet, in sacrifice.
Like mother cows to their calves, the sages call out to Indra, Calling him to drink the Soma juice.
In the stream’s wave, Soma dwells, distilling joy, in his seat, Resting on a wild cow’s hide.
Far-sighted Soma, Sage and Seer, worshipped at the heart of heaven, In the center of the straining cloth of wool.
Indu holds Soma close within the jars, on the purifying sieve.
Indu sends a voice high up to the realms of the air, Shaking the vase that drops with mead.
The Tree that sings its praises without end yields heavenly milk Among our hymns, urging generations on.
The Wise One, with the Sage’s stream, urged by Soma to move on, To the dear places in the sky.
O Pavamana, grant us wealth bright with a thousand lights, yes. O Indu, give us swift aid.