Now shall I speak the greatness of the Wind, and of his chariot:
shattering in his course, and with a thunderous cry.
He rideth touching the heights of heaven, reddening the air, casting up dust from the face of the earth as he passeth by.

The scattered whirls of the Wind press forward in his wake, hastening unto him as maidens flock to feast and mirth.

Yoked with them on one chariot, the god is swift, ruling as king over all this wide world.

Along the tracks of the sky he hasteneth, never tarrying, nor resting in any single day.

He is fellow to the waters, first-born of order— but who knoweth his birth, or whence he hath come forth?

The breath of the gods, seed of the world, this god strayeth wheresoever he will.

His voice alone is known, his shape unseen.
To him—to the Wind—we bring our gift in honor.