Behold the Maruts in their splendor! See how they shine in golden armor, each breastplate forged in the fires of heaven, each helm a crown of light. The gold burnishes in the lightning-flash, brilliant beyond the brilliance of the sun. They are radiant as the morning, fierce as the noon.

Their chariots are made of the wind itself, without wheel or axle—yet swifter than any chariot drawn by horses. They ride upon the storm-clouds as one rides upon a horse. The air parts before them. The heavens open. They trail the winds behind them like dust trails a chariot upon the road.

Each Marut bears weapons forged in celestial smithies. Their spears are lightning-bright and lightning-sharp. Their swords gleam with the whiteness of silver and the sharpness of obsidian. They wield axes that split the mountains. They carry bows that draw arrows of pure light. In their hands is the power to destroy and the power to restore.

See how they move in perfect unison, each Marut in harmony with the others, yet each fierce and independent. They are like a school of fish that turns as one creature, like a flock of birds that wheels in perfect formation. No general commands them, yet each knows what the others will do. They are brothers bound not by birth but by the fire of Rudra.

O Maruts, ye armored ones, ye chariots of wind! How beautiful thou art in thy terrible might! How fearsome thy approach! The hearts of the brave grow stronger at thy coming. The hearts of the wicked grow cold. Accept this hymn, O storm-gods! Accept the worship of thy mortals! Manifest thy power for our sake!