Come forth, ye Maruts, terrible and bright! The storm-lords, roaring through the vast and wind-swept sky. Your chariots thunder over earth and heaven, drawn by coursers swift as the hunter's arrow. The clouds break open at your coming—rain pours forth like milk from the breast of heaven.

Hear us, ye mighty ones! Your voices shake the mountains; your lightning splits the dark. Ye march as warriors in armour'd ranks, your weapons flashing gold and silver in the dawn. Each gust of wind beareth thy breath, each thunderhead thy chariot's shadow.

The fields cry out for thee, O Maruts! The cattle low, the birds flee before thy approach. Yet thou bringest life—the waters that make the earth green, the mist that nourishes the growing grain. Thy fury is justice; thy storm the mercy of the gods.

We praise thee, roaring ones! Accept our hymn as a warrior accepteth the wreath of victory. Let thy winds blow soft upon the good and terrible upon the wicked. Guard the flocks, bless the herds, make fertile the wombs of our cattle and our women.

Come swift, ye storm-lords! Come with thy lightnings and thy rains! We have prepared the sacred butter, we have chanted thy names. Be thou our guardians in the darkness; be thou our strength in the battle yet to come.