There is a man, ever youthful and self-disciplined, the master of his household, upon whom the god Savitar has bestowed his blessing. For him, may Bhaga and Aryaman never withhold their gifts of cattle, and may beauty cover him, as it is right and fitting. May the earth itself become as bountiful as the radiant dawns, especially when the strong gather in their might. As the singer offers his praise, may swift rewards come readily to him and his companions. The favor of the gods spreads out like an ancient, vast cow, bestowing nourishment. In the home of this lord, his companions share in the same sustenance, moving in harmony. Yet, profound questions arise: what was that forest, and which tree was it from which heaven and earth were shaped? These two, heaven and earth, stand firm and undecaying, upheld by mighty supports, while countless days and dawns have grown old upon them. Nothing lies beyond this creation; nothing is greater. The mighty bull upholds both heaven and earth, and the self-sustaining ones create a skin, a filter, through which the radiant ones carry the sun as if it were a swift horse. Like a tireless bull, he never wearies of the earth; like the wind, he moves freely through the vastness of space. Where Mitra and Varuna are worshipped, and where Agni burns like an unspent fire in the forest, the order of the cosmos is maintained. When the charioteer drives his team swiftly, he brings the restless to steadiness, protecting his own. There was a time when the son was born before the parents, and the cow lowed softly as the calves were questioned. Some say that Kanva is the son of a mortal, while Shyava, the victorious, has acquired wealth. The bright ones pour their gifts even for the dark one, and in this, none have surpassed us. Let the eager and wise come forward with their gifts, delighting in the best offerings. O Indra, may you be pleased with both the gifts and the givers when you have tasted the soma. O Indra, you traverse the shining realms of heaven and the broad earth, praised by many. Those who bear you at sacrifices, with strong voices, seek to please you and drive away the hostile. Let what is glorious be even more wondrous: when a son learns the wisdom of his parents, and when a wife, devoted, bears her husband’s burdens with zeal. May such noble pairs bring forth good fortune. There is a shining seat all around, where cows stand ready to be yoked, and where the ancient mother of the herd gives birth to the seven-formed voice. The abode fit for the gods has been proclaimed; Turvani goes alone with the Rudras. Whether old age or death is among them, let the honeyed offering be poured out for the sacred flames. Hidden in the waters, the guardian of the gods’ order spoke to the poet, and Indra, knowing, explained these mysteries. By such instruction, Agni is approached. He who does not know the field but is guided by one who does, proceeds aright, instructed by the knower. Such is the benefit of teaching; by it, one discovers the straight path. Today, the living one has eaten and grown, nourished by his mother. Yet, though young, old age comes upon him; even the generous, with good minds, grow weary. Let us perform auspicious rites, O Kuruśravaṇa, giving generously. May the donors be ever-giving, and may the soma, cherished in the heart, be offered as it should. No one has bound the poet among men; he has continued on without Pūṣan, trusting that all the gods will protect him, even as the cry of the lawless rises. On all sides, troubles press in, like rival wives, and helplessness oppresses; shame and trembling fill the mind. Like mice gnawing, afflictions attack, and so the singer calls out to Indra, the hundred-powered, for mercy—may he be as a father to his children. The poet chooses Kuruśravaṇa, the king, Trāsadasyu, mighty among the generous, as his sage and protector. He is the one whose chariot is drawn by three bay horses, well-guided, and whose praise is sung at the thousand-gifted sacrifice. His sweet songs, like those of his father Upamaśravas, proclaim the abundance of the field. Upon the son Upamaśravas, descendant of Mitrātithi, the poet calls, honoring his lineage. If he could rule over immortals or mortals, may the generous one live for him. Yet no one, not even with a hundred souls, escapes the law of the gods; all are bound by that yoke. Turning to another tale, the dice—made of strong Vibhīdaka nuts—excite and delight the gambler, their clatter upon the ground bringing a thrill like the taste of Mujavat Soma. The dice awaken desire, urging him on. The gambler’s wife has never scolded or rejected him, she has been kind to him and his friends, yet for the sake of one die, he abandoned her, making her weep. The mother-in-law restrains the wife, and the destitute finds no comfort. Like an old horse worn out by service, the gambler finds no joy even in his winnings. Others covet the gambler’s wife, longing for her as he longs for the throw. His family—father, mother, brothers—declare, “We do not know him; take him away, he is bound.” When he resolved to do better, he did not strive with others, but fell behind his friends. The brown dice speak as they are cast, and he returns to their assembly like a wife to her lover. The gambler enters the assembly, trembling, asking, “Shall I win?” But the dice turn against his wishes, awarding the prize to another. The dice torment and inflame, deceitful and burning, laughing at the defeated like mischievous boys. They exalt the gambler, yet cover him in honeyed shame. Fifty-three in their band, the dice play according to their own law, like Savitar. Even the fierce do not bow to the gambler, but even a king pays homage to the dice. They move below and leap above; handless, they overcome the one with hands. Though cold and cast upon dry ground, the divine dice burn the heart. The gambler’s wife is abandoned and distressed; his mother asks, “Where is he?” In debt and fear, seeking wealth, he goes to others by night. Seeing a woman, the gambler is inflamed, coveting another’s wife and fortune. In the morning, he yokes his tawny horses, but at the end of the game, the outcast falls before the fire. To the leader among the dice, the first of the band, the gambler makes a vow: “I do not claim your wealth, nor demand it; for ten days I speak this truth facing east.” A voice of wisdom calls: “Do not play with dice; instead, cultivate your field, delight in honest wealth, and consider yourself fortunate. There are cattle and a wife waiting for you, O gambler; thus Savitar the noble has shown me.” Make friendship and be gracious; do not come with fierce intent. Let not anger or enmity enter your heart, and let the pursuit of dice be far from us. Thus, in this tapestry of blessings, questions, teachings, and warnings, the ancient hymns weave the story of the human soul—its striving, its trials, and its hope for grace and wisdom.