What now? When will you hold us close, like a father his child, O gods, for whom sacred grass is cut?
Now where to? To which of your goals in heaven do you go, And not on earth, where your cows play?
Where do your latest favors show? Where, Maruts, your prosperity? Where all your high joys reside?
If, O Maruts, you the sons born by Prśni were mortal, and The immortal one who praises you.
Then never would I be loathed like a wild beast in the field, Nor should I go on Yama’s path.
Let not pestilence strike us with each new plague, hard to defeat, Let each leave us, with drought alone.
Truly, Rudra’s fierce and mighty Sons send their unclouded rain Even to desolate lands.
Like a cow the lightning bleats and follows, motherly, her calf, When their rain-swollen flood is released.
When they flood the earth, they spread darkness even in daylight, With the water-drenched rain-cloud.
O Maruts, at your voice’s sound, this earthly home shakes, And each man reels who lives within.
O Maruts, with your swift hooves, unhindered in your paths, Hasten along the bright embankments.
May your wheels be firm and steady, may your horses and chariots be Steady, and may your reins be well-made.
Invite this song, for praise, Agni, Lord of Prayer, Who is fair as Mitra is.
Form the hymn of praise in your mouth, make it like a rainy cloud, Sing forth the measured eulogy.
Glory to the Marut host, worthy, tuneful, vigorous: Here may the Strong Ones dwell with us.