He split the jars with kine and enjoyed the poured draught; the unfailing ritual thrice spilled the measure. The rind was scraped, the unguent consumed; Soma in Indra's belly is the unutterable immortal.

Crying aloud you are blended in the pitcher with curds and milk, you pass through the woollen fleece in the midst; being cleansed like a horse, distributing (gifts), you flow, Soma, into Indra's belly.

Roaring within the beaker thou art balmed with milk: thou passest through the fleecy filter all at once. Carefully cleansed and decked like a prizewinning steed, O Soma, thou hast flowed down within Indra's throat.