At the dawn of creation, when the first cry of life echoed across the waters—whether from the vast ocean or the primordial flood—the mighty horse was born. Its birth was wondrous, touched by the wings of the falcon and the arms of the swift bay steed, a creature truly worthy of praise. This horse was a sacred gift: Yama bestowed it, and Trita extended its days. Indra, king of the gods, was the first to mount it, while the heavenly Gandharva grasped its reins. The Vasus led the horse out from the brilliance of the sun itself. O horse, you embody Yama, you are the radiant Āditya, and you are Trita, keeper of hidden vows. United with Soma, yet set apart, you are said to be bound by three ties in heaven. Indeed, three bonds are yours above, three in the waters, and three within the ocean’s depths. May Varuṇa, lord of cosmic order, release you to that highest birthplace spoken of by the wise. Here, O swift one, are your places of cleansing and the resting spots for your hooves. Here, too, I beheld your auspicious reins, guarded by those who uphold the truth. With my mind’s eye, I have glimpsed your very self, like a day-flying bird. I saw your noble head, winged one, moving along effortless paths, striving amid the dust of the earth. I witnessed your highest form as you strove for the prize at the cow’s foot. When mortals partake of your bounty, O horse, you consume the plants, sustaining them and yourself. After you, O horse, the chariot follows; after you, the warrior rides. The cows trail in your wake, and so does the fortune of princes. Hosts seek your friendship, and even the gods have measured their strength after you. Behold this one, adorned with golden horns and feet as swift as thought—Indra himself followed behind. The gods assembled at his offering, for he was the first to mount the noble steed. These divine coursers, rich in milk and soft-haired at their centers, with strong, flowing manes, are truly celestial. Like swans in formation, they strive together, setting out upon the path of heaven. Your body, O steed, longs to fly; your spirit is like the wind, carrying the reins. Your horns spread wide, and through many forests they move, roaring with vitality. The swift horse drew near to the call, shining with divine favor. The goat, led in front as his navel, guides the way, and singers follow behind, their voices resounding. He approached the highest seat, drawing close to his father and mother. On this day, he is most pleasing to the gods, and he bestows desired gifts upon those who worship. Today, in the house of man, O god Jātavedas, you are kindled to worship the gods. Bring Mitra and Varuṇa here, O wise one; you are the messenger, the sage, and the conscious flame. O Tanūnapāt, who walks the path of truth and is anointed with honey and sweet speech, with our thoughts and prayers we kindle the sacred fire. Make our sacrifice successful among the gods. Let us praise with offerings the greatness of Naraśaṃsa, the venerable one, whose wise and pure gods, endowed with insight, enjoy both kinds of offerings. Come, O Agni, worthy of praise and worship, together with the Vasus. Mighty priest of the gods, when invoked, you shall worship them with the most fitting sacrifice. The sacred grass is spread in the east, upon the earth, the finest place at the dawn of days. It expands widely, the most excellent seat, a pleasant resting place for the gods and for Aditi. Let the wide and radiant goddesses take their seats, like wives adorned for their lords. Divine doors, great and all-embracing, be open and welcoming for the gods. The bringer of sweet rest is honored at the threshold; let Dawn and Night sit together in their place. In the divine chamber, the splendid women bear their shining adornments. The divine priests, the first and most eloquent, measure out the sacrifice for men to worship. They inspire the singers in the assemblies and point to the light in the east. May Bhāratī come to our sacrifice. May Iḍā, attentive and mindful as a human, be present here. May the three goddesses—Sarasvatī, Bhāratī, and Iḍā—sit on this sacred grass, granting us well-being. He who, by his forms, has filled all the worlds—heaven and earth, the two mothers—today, O priest, worship that most worshipful god Tvaṣṭṛ here, as directed. Let Vanaspati, the divine tree and fire, established in himself, arrange the offerings for the gods in due season. Let him, the taster, enjoy the oblation with honey and ghee. Agni, newly born, measured out the sacrifice and became the leader of the gods. At the priest’s command, in the speech of truth, may the gods enjoy the offering made with svāhā. You, O Agni, are a sign for the unseeing, an ornament for mortals, but not for the unadorned. You were born together with the dawns. As a thundercloud has form, so does the armored one approach the seat of battle with composure. With an unpierced body, may you emerge victorious—may the greatness of the armor protect you. With the bow may we win cattle, with the bow may we win the battle; with the bow may we overcome fierce contests. The bow frustrates the enemy’s desires—may we conquer all directions with the bow. The bowstring, as if speaking, draws near the ear, embracing its beloved companion. Like a woman, it sprinkles from the stretched bow, sending the arrow forth. These two, acting together like a woman holding her child to her breast, let them strike down enemies when loosed. These bowstrings, twanging, scatter the foes. He is the father of many, with many sons; gathering on the battlefield, he acts. The quiver, arrows, and all the troops, fastened on his back, prevail when set forth. Standing on the chariot, the skilled charioteer leads the horses wherever he wishes. Let the reins display the greatness of the goads, and let the mind follow as the traces direct. The strong-handed horses neigh loudly, racing with the chariots. Advancing with their hooves against the enemy, they destroy the foes, dispersing them in battle. The movement of the chariot is his offering, where weapons and armor are placed. There, with joyful hearts, may we approach the chariot together. The ancestors, strong and valiant, who sat at the sweet drink, endured hardship. Powerful and deep-minded, with varied armies, skilled in archery, unyielding and truly heroic, broad and victorious in their bands. The Brahman ancestors, gentle as Soma—may heaven and earth be auspicious and unharmed for us. May Pūṣan protect us from evil, O upholder of truth, guard us; let not the ill-wisher rule over us. The beast wears feathered wings, its tooth is its weapon; bound with ox-hide, it flies forth when released. Where men gather and scatter, there may the arrows bring us protection. Surround us with strength, let our bodies be as stone; may Soma speak for us, may Aditi grant us protection. Their thighs move, their hips strike; the wise, it is said, are born from horses—urge the horses on in battle. Like a serpent coiling its prey, the bowstring encircles the arm, restraining the arrow. May the skilled archer, knowing every art, protect the warrior from every side. Thus unfolds the sacred story, where horse and chariot, fire and sacrifice, gods and ancestors, all unite in the eternal dance of praise, protection, and victory.