The pressers pour out your nectar for rapturous joy, The sweet sap flows like a flood.
With strength we sift through the sieve him who brings might and wins the kine, Enveloped in water with his juice.
Pour on the sieve the Soma, never subdued in waters, waterless, And make it pure for Indra’s drink.
Moved by the purifier’s thought, the Soma flows into the sieve: By wisdom it has found its home.
Indra, with humble homage, have the Soma drops flowed forth to you, Contending for the glorious prize.
Purified in his fleecy garb, attaining every beauty, he Stands, hero-like, amid the kine.
Swelling, as if to heights of heaven, the stream of the creative juice Falls lightly on the cleansing sieve.
Thus, Soma, purifying him who knows song among the living men, Thou wanderest through the cloth of wool.