In the sacred dwelling of humankind, the fire of Agni, known as Jātavedas, is kindled with reverence. Today, this conscious, wise messenger is invoked to worship the gods and to bring forth Mitra and Varuṇa, the keepers of wisdom. Tanūnapāt, the sweet-tongued deity who journeys the path of truth, is called upon to arrange our thoughts with wisdom, to kindle the sacrifice, and to make our ritual divine and pleasing. Agni, praised and summoned, is asked to come with the Vasus, in harmony, for he is the mighty priest of the gods, most worthy of sacrifice, and the one who will worship them when invoked. The ancient sacred grass is spread in the eastern quarter of the earth, marking the best place at the dawn of days—a broad and spacious path, a pleasant seat prepared for the gods and for Aditi. The shining, wide doors of the sacrifice are opened, like wives adorned for their lords, so that the great divine doors, all-knowing, may be easy of access for the gods. The bringer of good fortune is called to worship, and Dawn and Night, the splendid heavenly maidens, are invited to sit together in their seat, bearing radiant beauty. The divine Hotṛ priests, eloquent and foremost, measure out the sacrifice for men to perform, inspiring the skilled ones in the assemblies and directing the ancient light toward its proper direction. Bharati, the powerful goddess, is invoked to awaken among men, and the three Sarasvatīs, goddesses of true inspiration, are called to sit upon the pleasant sacrificial grass. Tvaṣṭṛ, the god by whom Heaven and Earth—the two mothers—shaped all the worlds, is worshipped today, prompted by the Hotṛ, with full knowing. Vanaspati, the lord of plants, is asked to release the offerings to the gods in due order, and Agni, the peacemaker, is invited to taste the oblation of honey and ghee. Agni, born at once, measures out the sacrifice and becomes the leader of the gods. May the gods partake of the offering made with svāhā, at the command of the Hotṛ, in the speech of truth. In another prayer, Varuṇa, the wise one from heaven, is praised for giving the antidote to poison through powerful words. Whether the poison is dug up, not dug up, or attached at the root, it is declared dried up in the desert for the one who seeks protection. All forms of waterless poison and those attached at the root are seized—middle, highest, and lowest sap—so that they may not harm out of fear. A powerful roar, like thunder in the sky, is raised to drive away harm. With fierce speech, the foremost sap of darkness is seized, so that, as from darkness, the sun may arise as light. With the eye, the poison is struck; with poison, poison is struck. The serpent is commanded to die, not to live, so that the poison may return to its source. The dark one, the spotted one, the brown one, the black one—all false ones are addressed: they are warned not to remain near the companion, not to stand by, not to speak out, but to go away and dissolve the poison. The anger of the black, brown, and waterless ones, the mighty and powerful, is loosened, as a bowstring from the bow, as a chariot from its yoke. The binder and unbinder, father and mother—the kin of poison are known by every means, and they are challenged: what will they do? The daughter of Urugūlā, born of the Dāsi Siknī, is recognized as the source of all leprous sores—the sap, the poison of them all. The ears, declared by the dog dwelling near the mountain, are noted; among all that are dug up, the most sappy is the poison. Tābuva and Tastuva are named—sapless poisons, not ghēttvam, but pure in their identity. Then, the story turns to the herbs. The eagle found the sharp herb, the boar dug it up for humankind. This herb is called upon to strike down the one who strikes, to destroy what is done and not done. Sorcerers are targeted: the herb is asked to strike them down, to destroy their harmful deeds, and to protect against whoever attacks. Just as the skin is stripped from a spotted deer, the gods are asked to cut away the sorcery from the sorcerer and release it, as one would a jewel from its setting. Sorcery is to be taken by the hand and led away, so that it may return and strike its maker. The oaths of the sorcerer are to fall upon him; the sorcery is to return smoothly, as a chariot rolls on its path. Whether a woman or a man performed the sorcery for harm, that sorcery is led back to them, as a horse is led by a horse-caller. Whether made by gods or men, the sorcery is now led back, with Indra as ally. Agni, destroyer in battle, is invoked to overcome the battles and to take back the sorcery from the sorcerer by counteraction. A weapon against sorcery is called upon to strike the one who performed it, to destroy that one, not for harm but for protection. The sorcery is sent back to its maker, as a son goes to his father, as a servant to his master, as a captive to his bonds. Like a wild elephant returning to the forest, like a doe to her herd, let the sorcery reach its maker. The swiftest arrow is sent forth from heaven and earth, so that the sorcery may seize its maker as a hunter seizes a beast. The sorcery is to move against its maker as fire moves against the foe, as water flows to what is favorable, as a chariot rolls smoothly on its way. Finally, the defenders are counted: one and ten, two and twenty, three and thirty, four and forty, five and fifty. These defenders, born of truth and protected by truth, are invoked through the herb to make sweet the honey and the honey-bearer, ensuring sweetness and protection for all. Thus, through invocation, prayer, and ritual, the gods are honored, poison is neutralized, sorcery is returned to its source, and truth stands as the guardian of sweetness and well-being.