Passed through, the Soma flows in thousand streams, purified, to Indra’s special place.
Sing forth, you men who seek help, to Pavamana, to the Sage, Pour it out to entertain the Gods.
Thousand-power drops of Soma are purified for victory, Hymned to become the Gods’ feast.
Bring us abundant food, Indu, to win the spoil, With splendid manly might.
May they give us wealth in thousands and heroic power— These Godlike Soma drops, effused.
Like horses urged by their drivers, they are poured forth for victory, Swiftly through the woollen straining-cloth.
Noisily flow the Soma drops, like milch-kine to their calves: They run forth from both the hands.
As the Gladdener loved by Indra, O Pavamana, with a roar Drive all our enemies away.
O Pavamamas, driving off the godless, looking on the light, Sit in the place of sacrifice.