As for a chariot race, the skilled speaker, chief, sage, inventor, has been started with song. The ten sisters drive the car-horse onto the fluffy summit to the resting places.
The drop of Soma, pressed by wise Nahusyas, becomes the feast of the heavenly people. Indu, made beautiful by mortal hands, immortal, with sheep and cows and waters.
Drive the roaring one to the roaring one, this Pavamana, this melody flows to the white milk of the milch-cow. Through thousands of fine hairs goes the melodious singer, like Sūra through his fair and open paths.
Break down the strong seats of the demons; cleanse you, Indu, and make yourself strong. Shoot your swift bolt from above, rending those close and those far away.
Prepare the ancient paths for the new hymn, you giver of all blessings. Those that are high and hard for enemies to conquer, may we gain from you, Food-bestower!
Purify you, grant us waters, heaven’s light, and cows, offspring, and many children. Give us good health, ample land, and light, O Soma, and grant us long to see the sun.