Listen to the mystery of Skambha, the cosmic pillar, the foundation of all that exists. The gods themselves, with their hands, feet, speech, ears, and eyes, constantly offer tribute to this Skambha—both measured and immeasurable. Who is this god, this source, to whom all pay homage? From Skambha, darkness is driven away, destroyed by evil, and within him dwell all the lights—the three radiant ones—in the Lord of creatures. He who knows the golden reed standing in the waters knows the secret Lord of all beings. Some weave the cosmic loom: two youthful figures approach, spinning six rays. One stretches the threads forward and sets them, while the other neither removes them nor reaches their end. Of these two, dancing around, which one is beyond—I do not know. Some praise this, others bear it above in heaven. These rays support the sky, create melodies, and all are for the wind. He who sustains all that was and will be, the sole lord of heaven, the eldest Brahman, to him all homage is due. By Skambha, heaven and earth stand firm; Skambha is all—whatever breathes, blinks, and moves. Three offspring moved forth; others entered the sun from all sides. The vast one stood, the measure of the realm, and entered the golden mares. There is a wheel with twelve spokes, three hubs—who can understand this? Upon it, three hundred and sixty pegs are struck, sixty fixed and unmoving. O Savitar, know this: six are born together, one is single-born; all wish to rest in the single-born. Manifest, yet hidden in the secret, the ancient, the great place—there all is established, moves, breathes, and is sustained. A single wheel revolves with a single rim, a thousand spokes, moving forward and backward. With half of it, the whole world of beings is generated—where did its other half go? Drawn by five, the foremost is carried; yokes are fastened in succession. Its course is unseen—not having gone, nor is its going seen; one is not nearer, the other not farther. The ladle is crosswise, its base above. In it is placed the glory of manifold forms. There, the seven sages sat together and became guardians of its greatness. That which is yoked in front, behind, on all sides, and everywhere—by which the sacrifice is extended forward—which one, I ask, is the sacred verse? Whatever moves, flies, stands still, breathes or does not breathe, blinks or becomes—this earth of manifold forms is upheld by him. By coming together, it becomes one alone. Endless, stretched out in many places, infinite yet bounded on all sides, he, the guardian of heaven, moves about searching—wise in what has been and what will be. The Lord of creatures moves within the womb, unseen, yet is born in many forms. With half of him, he generated all beings—what sign marks his other half? He bears the water upward, as if with a vessel to be drawn. All see him with their eyes, but not all know him with their mind. He dwells far away in fullness; with lack, he is diminished. The great lord in the midst of the world receives tribute from the rulers of the people. From where the sun rises to where it sets, that alone is the greatest—nothing surpasses it. Those who speak of present, middle, or ancient knowledge, all declare the sun as the first, fire as the second, and the triple-winged swan. With a thousand days, the two wings of the swift swan fly through the sky to heaven. He, placing all gods on his breast, beholding, goes to all the worlds. By truth, he blazes upward; by the sacred word, he looks downward; by breath, he moves across, in whom the greatest is established. Whoever knows the two kindling sticks by which the treasure is produced, being wise, should consider the greatest—he should know the great Brāhmaṇa. At first, he was born without feet; then he bore the sound at the beginning. Becoming four-footed, fit for enjoyment, he took all food as his own. He became fit for enjoyment and gave much food. Whoever worships the eternal god, the one who is beyond, attains him. They call him eternal, yet today he may become new again. Day and night are born, each with a different form. A hundred, a thousand, ten thousand, a hundred million—innumerable are his own parts established within him. Seeing these, they strike at him, and so the god shines forth—this is that. A child, one very small, and another who is not seen at all; that goddess, more embracing than these, is dear to me. This auspicious one, ageless, is the immortal in the mortal's house. For whom she is made to lie, he who made her, he is worn out. You are woman, you are man; you are boy and also girl. You are the old one who walks with a staff; you are born, becoming one with faces in all directions. You are their father or their son; you are among them the eldest or the youngest. The one god, entered into the mind, was born first; he is within the womb. From fullness, fullness arises; fullness is filled with fullness. May we know today from where that is poured forth. This one is ancient, ever new, born again and again. She became all, the ancient one. The great goddess, the dawn, shines forth, and with each one, she is seen by the seer. Avirvai is the name of the goddess, by whom all is surrounded. By her form, these trees are green, adorned with green garlands. She does not abandon one who is near, yet she does not see one who is near. Behold the wonder of the god: she neither dies nor grows old. Urged by the unprecedented, they speak words as is fitting; wherever they go, those who speak are said to be the great Brāhmaṇa. Where gods and humans, like spokes in a hub, are established, I ask you, flower of the waters, where that is, set by illusion. Such is the story of Skambha, Brahman, and the goddess, the endless mystery at the heart of all existence.