O Savitar, know this mystery: six are born together, while one stands apart, single-born. All the others long to rest in that one, their single-born companion. This profound truth is both manifest and hidden, dwelling in the secret, ancient, and vast place where all things are established, move, breathe, and are sustained. Imagine a single wheel, turning with one rim and a thousand spokes, moving forward and backward. With half of this wheel, the entirety of creation was brought forth—yet where, one wonders, did the other half go? Drawn by five, the foremost among them is carried, its yokes fastened in succession. Its path is unseen, neither departing nor arriving, for one is not nearer, the other not farther. There is a ladle, placed crosswise with its base above, and within it lies glory of many forms. Seated together are the seven sages, who became guardians of its greatness. Consider the chariot: yoked in front, behind, on all sides, and everywhere—by these, the sacrifice is extended forward. Of these, which one, indeed, is the sacred verse? Whatever moves or flies, whatever stands still or breathes—or does not breathe, whatever blinks or becomes—this manifold earth is upheld by him. By coming together, all becomes one alone. He is endless, stretched out in many places, infinite yet bounded on all sides. This wise guardian of heaven moves about, searching the past and the future. The Lord of creatures moves unseen within the womb, yet he is born in many forms. With half of himself, he generated all beings—what sign, then, marks his other half? He carries the waters upward, as if drawing with a vessel; all see him with their eyes, but not all know him with their mind. He dwells far away in fullness, but 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 considered the greatest; nothing surpasses it. Those who speak of the present, the middle, or the ancient knowledge declare the sun as the first, fire as the second, and the triple-winged swan as the third. With a thousand days, the two wings of the swift swan fly through the sky to heaven. He carries all the gods on his breast, beholding and reaching 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 contemplate the greatest and know the great Brāhmaṇa. In the beginning, he was born without feet; then he bore the sound at the start. Becoming four-footed, fit for enjoyment, he took all food as his own. He became fit for enjoyment and then gave much food; whoever worships the eternal god, the one beyond, attains him. They call him eternal, yet today he may become new again. Day and night are born, each with a different form. Innumerable are his parts—hundreds, thousands, ten thousands, a hundred million—established within him. Perceiving these, they strike at him, and thus the god shines forth—this is that. There is a child, very small, and another who is unseen; yet the goddess, more embracing than these, is dear. 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 and man; you are boy and girl. You are the old one who walks with a staff; you are born with faces in all directions. You are their father and their son; among them, the eldest and the youngest. The one god, having entered 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 and 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 called the great Brāhmaṇa. Where gods and humans, like spokes in a hub, are established—I ask you, flower of the waters, where is that, set by illusion? By whom is the wind made to blow, who gives the five directions together? Who, thinking themselves possessed of offerings, are the gods, leaders of the waters—who were they? Of these, one dwells on earth, one moves in the atmosphere; one gives them the sky, the arranger, while others guard all the regions. He who knows the thread stretched out, in which all creatures are woven—he who knows the thread of the thread, knows the great Brāhmaṇa. I know the thread stretched out, in which these creatures are woven. I know the thread of the thread, and thus the great Brāhmaṇa. Between heaven and earth, Agni burns, consuming all that can be burned. Where he stood with a single wife, beyond that—where was Mātariśvan then? Mātariśvan entered into the waters, and the gods also entered the waters. The great one stood as the measure of the dust, and the purifier entered the green. He strode above the immortal Gāyatrī in the north; those who know the Sāman by the Sāman saw that region—where? The dwelling, the meeting place of treasures, like the god Savitṛ, true in law; Indra did not stand in the contest for riches. The lotus of nine gates, enveloped by the three qualities—within it, if there is a lordly self, that indeed is known by those who know Brahman. Desireless, steadfast, immortal, self-born, satisfied with essence, lacking nothing from anywhere—knowing him alone, one does not fear death: the self, firm, ageless, ever young.