Swift are thy chariots, O Maruts! Like the wind itself they race across the heavens. No chariot of mortal make can match their speed. They do not touch the ground yet travel from place to place in the blink of an eye. Their wheels are wrought of storm-clouds. Their axles are forged from the essence of the gale.

The steeds that draw these wondrous vehicles are no earthly horses! They are creatures of pure air and divine energy. With each bound they cover vast distances. With each breath they inhale the scattered clouds and exhale the rolling thunder. Their manes stream behind them like ribbons of wind.

The Maruts arrive wherever they are needed. Do the crops need water? They bring the rain in abundance. Do the demons threaten the realm? They arrive to do battle. Do the righteous cry out in their distress? In an instant the Maruts draw near. Time and space hold no dominion over them.

And what gifts do they bring? The waters of heaven! The sweet rain that drinketh the dusty earth and maketh green things grow! Upon the parched plains they pour forth their bounty. The grass springeth up. The flowers bloom. The trees bear fruit. The animals do frolic and the people do rejoice.

O chariots of wind! O swift-moving Maruts! Thou dost travel all the pathways of heaven and earth. Thou dost see all that transpireth. We pray thee, bring thy gifts to our homes. Let thy rain fall upon our fields. Carry our prayers to the realm of the gods. Speed thy course toward those who honor thee, and tarry long in the lands that love thee.