Pavamana, slayer of enemies, harmless to the beloved, Indu came not with age. Sit in the woods, O Shakuna, not falling; Soma, youthful, abides in the pots as beings.

O Pavamāna, eulogized (by the worshippers), distilling (into the receptacles), destroying the enemies, you go like a gallant to his mistress; falling like a bird alighting on the trees the Soma when purified alights upon the pitchers.

Chasing our foes thou comest, Pavamana Indu, besting, as lover to his darling. As a bird flies and settles in the forest, thus Soma settles, purified, in goblets.