Varied truly are our thoughts. Varied are the ways of men. The
joiner wants to find a breakage, the medicine man an accident, the brahmin-priest a worshiper. O Indu, flow round for Indra.

The smith with brittle firewood, with wings of birds to fan the
flame, with stones and glowing heat of fire, wants golden riches for himself. O Indu, flow round for Indra.

I'm poet, dad is medicine man, mama is grinding at the mill. With
varied thoughts intent on gain we follow after wealth of cows. O Indu, flow round for Indra.

The horse an easy car to draw, the troop of lovers jest and laugh, the
frog wants too a water-pool. O Indu, flow round for Indra.