LIKE cars that thunder on their way, like coursers eager for renown, have drops flowed forth for wealth.

Forth have they rushed from holding hands, like chariots that are urged to speed, like joyful songs of singing-men.

The Kings Kings are graced with eulogies, and with seven monks the offering.

Pressed for the gladdening draught, the drops flow forth abundantly with song, the juices in a stream.

Producing Morning's light, the Suns Pass through the openings of the cloth.

The singing-men of ancient time open the doors of sacred songs. Men, for the mighty to accept.

Combined in close society sit the seven monks, the brother-hood, filling the station of the One.

He gives us kinship with the Devas, and with the Sun unites our eye. The Sage's offspring hath appeared.

The Sun with his dear eye beholds that quarter of the heavens which monks have placed within the sacred cell.