Upon the vast tree of existence, two birds, bound by deep friendship, dwell together. One delights in tasting the sweet fruit that grows there, savoring its flavor, while the other, serene and watchful, simply gazes without eating. This tree, where honey-yielding birds gather, becomes a resting place for all the gods. At its very tip is the fruit they call sweet—let it not be lost, for its true origin remains unknown, even to the one who partakes. Upon this wondrous tree, the birds sing of immortality, their voices unwavering in the sacred assemblies. They stand as guardians of all the worlds, and the wise, seeking what is ripe and fulfilled, enter into the essence of that fruit here and now. All that is measured by the Gāyatrī and the Triṣṭubh, by the Jagatī and its verses—those who truly know these meters have touched immortality. With the Gāyatrī, the hymn is measured; with the hymn, the Sāman; with the Triṣṭubh, speech itself. Speech measures speech, and with the rhythms of two-footed and four-footed creatures, with syllables, the seven voices are measured and set in order. With the Jagatī meter, the celestial river was supported, and from the heart of the chariot, the sun was beheld. The Gāyatra is kindled in threefold ways; from this greatness, its majesty unfolds ever further. I invoke the sacred cow, abundant with milk and tended by skilled hands; the milker draws her bounty. Savitar, the inspirer, has brought forth the finest offering, and the heated vessel proclaims this truth to us. Lowing softly, the mistress of wealth longs for her calf and draws near with intent. May we, for the Ashvins, milk this uninjured cow; may she flourish and bring us prosperity. Thinking of her calf, the cow approaches, lowing as a mother, her mind set on her young. She longs for the heated vessel, measuring out the span of life and nourishing all with her milk. It is she who sprinkles and, encircled, marks the measure of life, reaching even to the dust’s edge. With her thoughts, she fashions mortals; becoming lightning, she spreads her presence wide. Uncovered and swift, trembling yet alive, she is fixed in the midst of homes. The living moves among the dead by its own nature; the immortal shares a womb with the mortal. The moon, shining on the waters, though ever young, awakens as if gray-haired. Behold this divine marvel: by its greatness, one dies today, yet was born only yesterday. He who fashioned her does not fully know her; even the one who has seen her can be wounded by her. Thus, Nirriti, the spirit of dissolution, entered the mother’s womb, hidden among many offspring. I have seen the herdsman, moving unhindered, wandering near and far, going straight and askew, clothed in all directions, turning within the worlds. Heaven is our father, the creator and the navel of all; he is the bond. Earth is our mother, whom I praise. Between the upturned waters lies the womb; there, the father placed the seed within the daughter. I ask you, O wise ones, about the farthest limit of the earth, about the seed of the bull and the horse, about the navel of all the worlds, and about the highest realm of speech. The altar is the farthest limit of the earth; Soma is the seed of the bull and the horse. The sacrifice is the navel of all worlds; Brahman is the highest realm of speech. I do not know what I am; as if hidden and bound, I wander with my mind. But when the first-born of truth touched me, I gained a share of that sacred speech. He moves forward and backward, seized by his own nature—immortal, yet sharing a womb with mortals. Those ever-divergent, ever-separating, recognized one but not the other. Seven, half-formed, the seeds of the world, stand in Vishnu’s directions, established by law. By their thoughts, minds, and wisdom, they encompass and surround all things. The sacred verses dwell in the imperishable, highest sky, where all the gods are seated. If one does not know this, what use are the verses to him? Those who know, gather here. Setting the measure of the verse, they established the world, even with half a verse, and all things move. The triple-footed Brahman, manifold in form, was shaped; by it, the four directions are sustained. May the blessed one be rich in good things, and may we too be blessed. O cow, giver of all, eat the grass and drink pure water as you wander. The cow measured out the waters, shaping them; she became one-footed, two-footed, four-footed, eight-footed, and nine-footed. The thousand-syllabled verse is the world’s meter; its streams flow across the ocean. The black-moving ones and the tawny birds, robed in water, fly to the sky. They covered him who sits at the seat of truth, and with ghee, they spread the earth. She walks on foot, the foremost among those with feet—who truly knows her, O Mitra and Varuna? The embryo bears her weight; she upholds truth and casts aside untruth. Virāj is speech, earth, and the atmosphere; Virāj is Prajapati, and Virāj is death, who became chief of the Sādhyas. All that was and will be is under his control—may my past and future be under my control as well. I saw smoke rising from afar, crossing boundaries. The heroes milked the spotted one, and thus the first laws were established. Three hairy ones are seen as the seasons pass; in the year, one is shorn. Another, by his powers, surveys all, though the charioteer’s form is unseen. Speech is divided into four measured parts; only the wise Brahmans know them. Three remain hidden, unmoving, and secret; the fourth alone is spoken by mortals. They call him Indra, Mitra, Varuṇa, Agni; he is also the radiant, splendid-winged Garutman. The wise speak of the One as many: Agni, Yama, Mātariśvan. Turning now, we see the healers at work, preparing their remedies, fashioned by hand, manifold in form like a bride adorned for her wedding. From their essence, we drive away all that is harmful. With a head, a nose, and ears, crafted by sorcery and gathered together in many forms, from its essence, too, we drive away all harm. Whether made by a Śūdra, a king, a woman, or priests, let the spell return to its maker, as a wife returns to her husband, seeking her own kin. With this sacred herb, I drive away all witchcraft from the innocent—whatever was wrought in the field, among the cattle, or among your people. Let the curse fall upon the evildoer; let the oath return to the one who swore falsely. We send it back, so that the witchcraft strikes its maker. Let the Angirases, facing us, be our overseers and priests; let them, facing us, destroy all spells and those who made them. Whoever, with hostile intent, said to you, "Go away"—may the witchcraft turn back upon him; do not desire us, the innocent. Whoever set snares for you, as a craftsman does for a chariot, with cunning—go to him, for there is your home, not among these people who know you not. Those who, having made you, used you, skilled in spells and sorcery—with this purifying water that turns back witchcraft, we cleanse you. Thus, in the unity of all things, in the weaving of speech and sacrifice, in the bonds of earth and sky, in the mystery of the cow and the fruit, in the movement of the immortal among mortals, and in the return of harm to its source, the sacred order of the cosmos is upheld, and the wise find their place within it.