Purely flowing, O Soma, in a sweet stream, press for Indra, for his libation.
Queller of foes, friend to all, he has reached his place, his iron home, his heavenly abode.
Be the best slayer of Vṛtra, the best giver of joy, promote the wealth of our princes' offerings.
Flow forward with your juice to the gods' feast, flow here for our strength and renown.
O Indu, we come to you each day, with one purpose only: to you alone do we pray.
With this eternal fleece may Sūrya's Daughter cleanse your foaming Soma.
Ten slender maidens grasp him in the press, hold him tight on the final day.
The virgins send him forth; they play the skin musician, blowing the triple foe-repelling meath.
Around him blend unbroken cows, for Indra's drink, the fresh Soma with their milk.
In this wild ecstasy, Indra slays all Vṛtras: the Hero pours his wealth upon us.