Hark! The thunder rolls across the heavens! The lightning cracks the vault of sky! The Maruts come—those wild and terrible sons of Rudra, the storm-gods incarnate, the thunder-warriors of the cosmic battle. They rush forth with a thousand voices, shaking the very foundations of the world.

See them in their terrible beauty! Each Marut rides a whirlwind, each bears the fury of the tempest. Their spears are bolts of lightning. Their armor shines golden as they tear through the clouds. No power can withstand them. No mountain stands firm against their charge. They are youth eternal—never old, never still, forever wild.

They come together, a brotherhood of devastation and renewal. Where they pass, the dry lands are drenched. Where they strike, the old growth falls and new life springs forth. They are the liberators—breaking open the caves where the waters were imprisoned, where the light was bound, where the riches of heaven were hoarded by the demons.

O Maruts, ye swift and mighty! Ye who wear the wind as garments and ride the storm as chariots! Ye who are numbered in their thousands, yet each one distinct and fierce! Come ye to this sacrifice. Drink of the soma and be strengthened. Hear these hymns of praise and be exalted.

Ye are the companions of Indra in his battles. Ye are the brothers of valor, the sons of strength. When ye march forth, the earth trembles. When ye cry out, the heavens answer. Ye are terrible, yet generous to those who honor thee. Accept this oblation, O Maruts! Guard us, O storm-gods! Bring rain to our fields and blessings to our people.