Sing praise to the Maruts! O ye singers of hymns, raise your voices! The storm is coming—the great and glorious storm that brings life to the parched earth. The sky darkens. The wind rises. The first drops of rain begin to fall, sweet and precious as nectar.

The Maruts bring the rain! These divine ones, these storm-warriors, shake the clouds until they burst. The waters descend in torrents, in sheets, in rivers from heaven itself. The earth drinks deeply and is satisfied. The seed that lay dormant stirs to life. The hidden springs begin to flow. The grass greens and the flowers bloom.

What gift is greater than the gift of rain? The rain sustains all life. The rain fills the wells and the rivers. The rain makes the fields fertile and the pastures lush. The rain fills the udders of the cattle and makes the milk flow white and abundant. The rain is life itself, falling from heaven as a blessing from the gods.

The Maruts are generous in their fury! When they come, they come not to destroy but to renew. The lightning strikes the dry wood and sets it ablaze—yet from the ashes new growth springs forth. The wind tears down the dead branches—yet fresh leaves follow. The rain floods the valleys—yet life floods in abundance.

O Maruts, ye bringers of rain, ye liberators of the waters! We praise thee for thy gift. We sing thy glory for the blessing thou pourest forth. Come now with thy storm! Shake the heavens! Split the clouds! Let the water fall like a veil from the sky. Make the earth green. Make the grain grow. Make the herds prosper. O Maruts, bring thy divine gift to our fields and our people!