These swift Soma drops have been filtered through the purifying sieve To bring us all happiness.
Dispelling manifold misfortune, granting the horse’s offspring, And the warrior’s steed, success.
Bringing prosperity to cattle, they cause the perennial Iḷā to flow For us in noble praise.
Strong, born of mountains, the stalk has been pressed In streams for joyous delight: Like a hawk settling at home.
Fair is the God-beloved juice; the plant is washed in water, pressed by men The milch-cows sweeten it with milk.
As drivers adorn a horse, so they have adorned the meath’s juice for Ambrosia, for the festival.
You, Indu, with your sweet-flowing streams, which were poured for help, Have settled in the cleansing sieve.
So flow you onward through the fleece, for Indra flow, to be his drink, Finding your home in wooden vats.
As giving room and freedom, as most sweet, pour forth butter and milk, O Indu, for the Aṅgirases.
Most active and benevolent, this Pavamana, sent to us For lofty friendship, meditates.
Queller of curses, mighty, with strong sway, this Pavamana shall Bring treasures to the worshipper.
Pour upon us thousands of possessions, both of cattle and steeds, Exceedingly glorious, much-desired.
Wandering far, with wise designs, the juice here present is diffused, Made beautiful by living men.
For Indra flows the gladdening drink, the measurer of the region, Sage, With countless wealth and endless help.
Born on the mountain, praised here, Indu for Indra is set down, As in her sheltering nest a bird.
Pressed by the men, as if to war has Pavamana sped, To test with might within the vats.
That he may move, they yoke him to the three-backed triple-seated car By the Seven Ṛṣis’ holy songs.
Drive that Tawny Courser, O ye pressers, on your way to war, Swift Steed who carries off the spoil.
Pouring all glory here, he stands like a hero among the kine,