Listen now to the wondrous tale revealed in the hymns of old, where the sacred horse, golden-horned and swift-footed, stirs the very mind and spirit as it moves. Once, Indra himself was below, and the gods, eager for the offering, mounted this noble steed, for it was the first to be harnessed in the great sacrifice. These celestial horses, slender-waisted and strong, moved with heroic speed, striving together in harmony like a line of radiant swans, their divine energy leading the way. The horse’s body longed to fly, its mind racing like the wind upon its path. Its horns spread wide in many places, roaming with vigor through the forests. As it approached the place of feeding, it shone with divine brilliance, its very thoughts radiant; before it went the goat, leading as its navel, while the wise followed behind, singing in reverence. The noble horse drew near the highest seat, to its father and mother, and on this day, the gods found the path most pleasing, for the horse itself bestowed rewards upon those who worshipped. Beyond this, the sages spoke in riddles of the universe’s mystery. They told of a beautiful, grey-haired Hotar, the sacrificial priest, who had a middle brother that consumed the offering and a third, ghee-backed, radiant in his own way. Here, they saw the lord of the clan with seven sons. Seven, they said, harnessed a chariot with a single wheel, drawn by one horse with seven names. This wheel, with three hubs, never aged nor broke, and upon it all the worlds stood. Seven stood upon this chariot, which had seven wheels and was drawn by seven horses. Seven sisters gathered together, and there the seven names of cows were placed. The sages questioned: who saw the first being born—the boneless one who bears bones? Who is the soul of the earth, the maker of the gods? Where is he, and who, knowing, approached to ask this? They pondered, seeking where the gods’ footprints were set. Upon the calf and the bull, the wise spun seven threads and wove them, tracing the divine path. Not knowing, they asked the sages for understanding: who established the six spaces, the forms of the unborn, and what is the one among them? Let him speak who knows the place of this beautiful one, for the cows draw milk from his head, veiled, and bring water to his feet. In the beginning, the mother shared nectar with the father, joining him in mind. Pierced by the essence of the embryo, she went forth, bowing to the creative utterance. The mother was yoked to the right-hand yoke, the embryo stood within the wombs, and the calf, measuring, followed the cows, seeing the universal form in three distances. The one who bears three mothers and three fathers stood upright, his rims never tiring. They converse on the back of heaven, uttering speech that knows and inspires all. The twelve-spoked wheel of time revolves unceasingly in the sky of immortality, where, O Agni, the twin sons stand, seven hundred and twenty in number. They call the father five-footed, twelve-formed, dwelling in the far half of heaven; the wise see the upper realm established in the seven-wheeled, six-spoked chariot. On the five-spoked wheel, revolving, all worlds stand; its axle bears great weight, yet from ancient times, neither it nor its spokes break. The wheel’s rim is perpetual, turning as ten harnessed draw it upright. The sun’s eye is veiled by space, and in it all worlds are established. The sages spoke of seven sons born together, six nourished and one born alone. The wise, born of gods, declare their domains are set apart by their rites, their forms shining in manifold ways. Though these are truly women, they call them men; one who sees does not see, though he looks. The wise son understands these mysteries, and he who knows them is the father’s father. The cow, with one foot before and one behind, stands bearing her calf. Of her own accord, she departs with half of something; none knows where she has gone, for she does not give birth among the herd. Who knows the father of this cow, who was before and who after? Who, being wise, can declare from where the divine mind was born? Those who are near are called far, and those far are called near. Indra and Soma made these things, yoked like two horses, carrying the burden of the world. Two birds, united companions, cling to the same tree—one eats the sweet fruit, while the other looks on without eating. Where these immortal birds sing together with unblinking eyes, the wise one, having entered the fire, discerns the essence of all that exists. Upon the tree where the honey-yielding birds rest, and all the gods dwell, its foremost fruit is said to be sweet; but he who does not eat it does not know the father. What is established in the Gāyatrī meter, they call Gāyatra; from Triṣṭubh, Triṣṭubha; and what is set in Jagatī, they call Jagatī. Those who know these measures attain immortality. With the Gāyatrī they measure the hymn, with the Sāman the chant, with the Triṣṭubh the speech. With speech they measure speech, and with two-footed and four-footed meter, they measure the seven voices. The Jagatī upheld the celestial river; amid the chariot, they beheld the Sun. There are three kindlings of the Gāyatra, and from that greatness, all greatness grew. The hymn calls upon the good-yielding cow, with generous hands, who gives milk to the gods. “Let us milk her, O Ashvins,” the sage prays. The best offering, brought by Savitṛ, the heated vessel, is thus declared. Lowing, the mistress of riches, desiring her calf, approached in mind. This unyoked cow, to be milked by the Ashvins, may she grow for great good fortune. The cow, following her calf, lowing, with head raised, approaches, longing for the heated vessel, pouring forth her milk, measuring out her life with her milk. This one sprinkles, by whom the cow measures out her life, reaching the end of days. With her thoughts, she has shaped the mortal; becoming lightning, she has covered him with her garment. Uncovered, swift-moving, alive, trembling, yet stable in the midst of dwellings, the living one moves among the dead by his own law; the immortal is united with the mortal. The sage saw the herdsman, never resting, moving on paths both near and far. Clothed in the same, he moves together and apart, spreading himself within all the worlds. He who made her does not know her; he who saw her, let him declare. Surrounded within the mother’s womb, with many offspring, he entered into dissolution. Heaven is my father, the begetter, the navel here; the great earth is my mother, my kin. Between these two outstretched bowls is the womb; there, the father placed the embryo in the daughter. The seeker asks: What is the farthest end of the earth? Where is the navel of the world? What is the seed of the vigorous horse? What is the highest heaven of speech? The answer resounds: This altar is the farthest end of the earth; this sacrifice is the navel of the world. This Soma is the seed of the vigorous horse; this Brahman is the highest heaven of speech. Thus, in these hymns, the sages wove the deepest mysteries of existence, of sacrifice, of horse and cow, of heaven and earth, of time and speech, and of the immortal that dwells among the mortal—all revealed in sacred song, for those who seek to know.