The golden horse neighs loudly as it starts, settled deep in the wooden vessel as they purify him. Led by the men, it takes the milk for attire: Then he, through his powers, will compose praise-songs.
Like a rower driving his boat, you, Golden-Hued, send your voice, free on the path of order. As a deity, you utter the secret names of gods, to be proclaimed on sacred grass more widely.
Moving forward like the waves of water, our holy hymns are approaching Soma. They come with humble adoration, and, yearning, enter him who desires to meet them.
They drink the stalk, the Steed who dwells on mountains, just as a Bull adorns him on the uplands. Praises follow and attend him as he roars: Trita carries Varuṇa high in the ocean.
Sending your voice as Director, loosen the Invoker’s thoughts, O Indu, as they cleanse you. While you and Indra rule for our benefit, may we be masters of heroic strength.