This Soma horse has traveled along the paths, and Pavamana flowed like rain from heaven. With us, Soma with a thousand streams has sunk into the woods, resting on its Mother’s breast.
He has clothed himself in the robes of rivers, mounted the straightest ship of Order. The drop is grown in waters by the Hawk’s speed, the Father drinks it, drinking his offspring.
They come to him, red and tawny, Lord of Heaven, the vigilant Guardian of the meath, the Lion. First, Hero in battle, he seeks the cattle, and with his eye the Steer protects us.
They harness the mighty Courser to the wide-wheeled chariot, unwearying and awesome. The twins, the sisters, brighten him, and these children of one mother, the vigorous Racer.
Four pour out the holy oil to him, sitting together in the same vessel. To him they flow, purified and honored, and still, from every side, they surround him.
He is the support of the heavens, the sustainer of earth, and in his hand are all the people. Be the team’s Lord a well to you, the singer; the sweet plant’s stalk is cleansed for a deed of glory.
Fighting, unharmed, come where the Gods feast; Soma, as a Vitra-slayer, flows for Indra. Grant us abundant wealth, splendid riches, may we be masters of heroic vigor.