They are the sons of Rudra the Archer! Born of his mighty strength, they embody both his terrible wrath and his transcendent beauty. Fearful are they, yet magnificent to behold. In them do dwell the very essence of storm and wind, of thunder and lightning, of growth and destruction.

The Maruts are young and vigorous, forever renewing themselves. They do not age nor grow weary. They dance eternally through the heavens, their limbs strong and supple, their spirits unbroken. Each beareth the mark of his father Rudra upon his brow — the crescent moon that shineth with cold silver light.

They are terrible in their wrath! When they do anger, mountains crumble. When they do frown, rivers cease to flow. No being, mortal or divine, can withstand them when they come forth in fury. Their weapons are without mercy. Their judgment is swift and absolute.

Yet are they also beautiful! Their forms are perfect and harmonious. Their voices are as music when they sing together. Their laughter is the sound of gentle rain upon the fields. They bring fertility and abundance. They nourish the crops. They water the herds. They bless the homes of those who honor them.

O sons of Rudra! O beautiful and terrible Maruts! We mortals stand in awe of thy dual nature. We fear thy wrath yet crave thy favor. We tremble at thy approach yet rejoice in thy coming. Accept our sacrifices. Hear our prayers. Guide us with thy wisdom. Protect us with thy strength. Let us know both thy terror and thy grace.