Behold the chariot of the Aśvins! Golden is its frame, its wheels turn swift and smooth. The axle burneth bright; the yoke is bound with cunning knots. Three-wheeled or four-wheeled—the accounts do vary—but all agree: no chariot in heaven or earth moveth with such speed.

What manner of horses draw this wondrous car? Some say they are coursers of wind, their manes like cloud-streams, their hooves striking not the ground but the very air itself. Some say they are winged beings, neither fully horse nor fully bird, but something far stranger and more divine.

The Aśvins mount their car at break of day. They take the reins—and lo! They are gone. In a moment they have traversed the sky; in another moment they descend to earth. They visit the sick, the afflicted, the desperate. They answer prayers before the words have left the lips of the supplicant.

They came once to a maiden bound in a well. The darkness was upon her; she despaired of rescue. But the Aśvins heard her cry and descended. They raised her up from the depths and restored her to her kin, and she was married to a noble husband, and her line was blessed forever.

They came to an ancient man who had lost his youth. His vigor was gone, his hair had turned grey, his sight had dimmed. But the Aśvins touched him, and he was made young again—swift-limbed, keen-eyed, strong-hearted as a warrior in his prime.

O thou golden chariot! O swift-moving wheels! O Aśvins, riders most wondrous! Come to us in our hour of need. Let us hear the rumble of thy wheels, the thunder of thy horses' hooves. Carry us from despair; restore to us what we have lost. O twin lords of mercy, accept our praise and our devotion.