The tale begins with the sacred Soma, whose juice is pressed and emerges pure, radiant, and strong. This luminous essence shines forth, discerning and illuminating all it touches. As honey flows, so too is the pressed Soma poured out for mighty Indra, coming from far and near, a gift of sweetness and strength. In harmony, the sacrificers press the tawny Soma with stones, preparing it with devotion for Indra’s drink. The sisters, skilled and attentive, press the heroic Soma, lord of offspring, and the mighty ones prepare the great offering. Pavamana, the shining god, pressed for the gods, distributes all treasures to the people, his brilliance bringing blessings. O Pavamana, bring excellent praise and rain to the gods, flowing forth for the gathered offerings. The guardian of the people, Agni, is born—vigilant and skilled, bringing new prosperity. His face, anointed with ghee, touches the vast sky, shining pure and radiant for the Bharatas. Agni, discovered by the Angirasas hidden and adorned in every forest, is born when churned, mighty and called the son of strength. Men kindle Agni, the sign of sacrifice and the first priest, seating him in the triple seat. With Indra and the gods, he sits on the grass as the wise hotar, ready for worship. This pressed Soma, grown by truth, is offered to Mitra and Varuna; the invocation is made for them to hear. The two kings, unassailable, sit firm in the highest seat, supported by a thousand pillars. These sovereign Adityas, lords of gifts, delight in the unbroken stream of ghee. Indra, unconquered, struck down ninety-nine foes with Dadhichi’s bones, desiring the horse’s head hidden in the mountains; he found it with the falcon’s help. Here, they sought the name of the cow, offspring of Tvashtar, in the house of the moon. This is the ancient praise of Indra and Agni, born from the mind of the lovely one, like rain from a cloud. Hear the invocation of the singer, Indra and Agni; accept these songs and nourish the thoughts. Do not bring us to evil, Indra and Agni, nor to reproach; do not harm us in our dwelling. O tawny Soma, flow forth, accomplishing skill for the gods to drink; let the exhilaration be for the Maruts and for Vāyu. With the gods, the strong poet shines forth, beloved in his place of birth, pure and unassailable. O purified one, set in motion by thought, roaring, you approach your womb and ascend to Vāyu by your own law. For your friendship, O Soma, O tawny Indu, I seek your favor day by day; many delights come to me—bring me that circle of joy. For you, O Soma, I come by night and day to your stream, O tawny one; with longing, I soar beyond the burning sun, like a bird. Purifying himself, Soma steps forth, wise and overcoming all hostilities; with their thoughts, the inspired ones adorn him. The reddish one mounts the womb, strong and pressed, coming to Indra; let him sit in the firm seat. Now, O Soma, pour out for us great wealth from every side; flow forth, bringing thousands. Drink the Soma, O Indra; let it exhilarate you, pressed skillfully by the stone and guided by the presser’s arms. That exhilaration of yours, yoked and lovely, by which you, swift-bayed Indra, have slain the Vṛtras—may that delight you, O mighty one. Hear well, O bountiful Indra, this praise which Vasiṣṭha offers; accept these hymns at the shared feast. All the hosts of men, together with their companions, have fashioned Indra for kingship—for strength, the best station, wide might, fierce and powerful, swift with force. The wise ones bow the rim with their gaze, intoning the chant; your blameless, shining ones, O vigorous one, join in the song with their ears. Together, the singers have called Indra to drink the Soma, when the lord of good things, steadfast in his vow, grows strong with his bands and might. He who is king of peoples, rider on chariots, unwearied, destroyer of all hosts, the foremost, slayer of Vṛtra—I praise him. Glorify that Indra, rich in gifts for help, in whose hand the bolt is set by the wise ordainer; the great god, visible like the sun. The dear poet of heaven moves along the paths of the offspring, guided by his own sounds, possessing the wisdom of poets. The pure son was born from his mothers, shining at birth, great and mighty, grown by the cosmic order. You, unwearied, are poured out for the undiminished, blameless people, O invigorating one, for their increase. Indeed, O Pavamana, you are the most radiant among the divine births, proclaiming immortality. By you, the Navagvas and Dadhyanc were filled; by you, the inspired ones attained; by you, the gods’ favor and lovely nectar were gained; by you, fame was acquired. Soma, purified, rushes through the filter with his wave, and at the forefront, Pavamana, roaring, utters his voice. Thus, the story unfolds—a hymn to Soma and the gods, a celebration of their gifts, their strength, and their blessings upon all creation.