The golden nectar, poured onto the filter, is set forth like a chariot sent to conquer. He has won song and vigor as they purify him, and has delighted the gods with feasts.
He who sees man reaches the filter; bearing his name, the Sage seeks his dwelling. The Rishis came to him, seven holy singers, when in the bowls he settles as Invoker.
Shared by all gods, wise, propitious, Soma goes, as they purify him, to his constant station. May he rejoice in all his lofty wisdom among the Five Tribes, the Sage attains with effort.
In your mysterious place, O Pavamana Soma, are all the gods, the Thrice-Eleven. Ten on the fleece, themselves, self-prompted, and seven fresh rivers, brighten and adorn you.
May this be the truth of Pavamana, where all singers gather them together, That he has given us space and made the daylight, helped Manu and repelled the Dasyu.
Like the priest seeking the cattle-rich station, like a true king going to great assemblies, Soma sought the beakers as they purified him, and like a wild bull, settled in the woods.