Let our Soma drops flow freely, pressed and golden, among the gods of the high heavens. May we not lack those who give no food! May the godless perish! May our prayers bring success.
Send us the drops, flowing like treasure, for which we urge our horses on. May we carry away precious wealth beyond the cunning hindrances of all mortals.
He who hates himself is hated by others; he who destroys hate is also destroyed. As thirst is quenched in the desert, conquer you, O Soma Pavarnana, those with evil thoughts.
You are near kin to you, raised highest in the skies; your branches grow on the earth’s high ridge. The press-stones crush and grind you on the ox-hide; sages milk you with their hands into the streams.
They hurry on your strong and beautiful juice, O Indu, as the first ingredient of the drink. Subdue every foe, O Pavamana, and show your might as sweet and pleasing drink.