By this your fashioned form lay concealed like the sleeping sun; in that darkness the bull, the mighty one of the host, struck and cut him down — Indra, rising with strength, smote him with loud cry.

Indra, the showerer (of benefits) exhilarated by the effused juices, uplifting (his thunderbolt), has slain him enjoying the dews of the firmament, sleeping (amidst the waters), and thriving in sunless darkness.

Him as he lay there huge in length extended, still waxing in the gloom which no sun lightened, Him, after loud-voiced threats, the Hero Indra, rejoicing in the poured libation, slaughtered.