More beautiful than beauty itself, like Indra’s thunderbolt, this Soma, rich in sweetness, has cried out in the pot. Dropping with oil, abundant, sacrificial streams pour forth to him, like cows lowing with their milk.
That ancient one, whom from heaven, swiftly carried by the falcon, through the realm of air, is being seized. He, trembling with fear and terrified in heart, before the bow-wielding Kṛśānu, holds fast to the sweet.
May those first fresh drops of Soma’s juice flow on, bringing us mighty strength in herds. Beautiful as serpents, worthy to be seen, they whom every sacred gift and all our prayers have pleased.
May that much-praised Indu, with a heart inclined towards us, knowing well, fight against our enemies. He who has brought the seed near the Strong One’s seat, moves onward to the open stall of herds.
The active, powerful juice of heaven flows on, great Varuṇa whom the forward man can never deceive. Mitra, the Holy, has been pressed for troubled times, neighing like an impatient horse amid the herd.