Persuade us of your views. So speak right up. No need to be afraid—we’ve made a pact—

we won’t be the ones who break it first.

By god, I’m full of words, bursting to speak. I’ve worked my speech like well-mixed flour— like kneading dough. There’s nothing stopping me.

You, lad, fetch me a speaker’s wreath—and, you, bring water here, so I can wash my hands.

You mean it’s time for dinner? What’s going on?

For a long time now I’ve been keen, by god, to give them a stupendous speech—overstuffed— something to shake their tiny birdy souls.

I’m so sorry for you all, who once were kings . . .

Kings? Us? What of?

You were kings indeed, you ruled over everything there is— over him and me, first of all, and then over Zeus himself. You see, your ancestry goes back before old Kronos and the Titans, way back before even Earth herself!

Before the Earth?

Yes, by Apollo.

Well, that’s something I never knew before!

That’s because you’re naturally uninformed—

you lack resourcefulness. You’ve not read Aesop. His story tells us that the lark was born before the other birds, before the Earth. Her father then grew sick and died. For five days he lay there unburied—there was no Earth. Not knowing what to do, at last the lark, at her wits’ end, set him in her own head.

So now, the father of the lark lies dead in a headland plot.

So if they were born before the Earth, before the gods, well then,

as the eldest, don’t they get the right to rule?

By Apollo, yes they do.

So you out there, look ahead and sprout yourselves a beak— in good time Zeus will hand his sceptre back

That’s because you’re naturally uninformed—

you lack resourcefulness. You’ve not read Aesop. His story tells us that the lark was born before the other birds, before the Earth. Her father then grew sick and died. For five days he lay there unburied—there was no Earth. Not knowing what to do, at last the lark, at her wits’ end, set him in her own head.

So now, the father of the lark lies dead in a headland plot.

So if they were born before the Earth, before the gods, well then,

as the eldest, don’t they get the right to rule?

By Apollo, yes they do.

So you out there, look ahead and sprout yourselves a beak— in good time Zeus will hand his sceptre back

That’s because you’re naturally uninformed—

you lack resourcefulness. You’ve not read Aesop. His story tells us that the lark was born before the other birds, before the Earth. Her father then grew sick and died. For five days he lay there unburied—there was no Earth. Not knowing what to do, at last the lark, at her wits’ end, set him in her own head.

So now, the father of the lark lies dead in a headland plot.

So if they were born before the Earth, before the gods, well then,

as the eldest, don’t they get the right to rule?

By Apollo, yes they do.

So you out there, look ahead and sprout yourselves a beak— in good time Zeus will hand his sceptre back

That’s because you’re naturally uninformed—

you lack resourcefulness. You’ve not read Aesop. His story tells us that the lark was born before the other birds, before the Earth. Her father then grew sick and died. For five days he lay there unburied—there was no Earth. Not knowing what to do, at last the lark, at her wits’ end, set him in her own head.

So now, the father of the lark lies dead in a headland plot.

So if they were born before the Earth, before the gods, well then,

as the eldest, don’t they get the right to rule?

By Apollo, yes they do.

So you out there, look ahead and sprout yourselves a beak— in good time Zeus will hand his sceptre back

to the birds who peck his sacred oaks.

Way back then it wasn’t gods who ruled. They didn’t govern men. No. It was the birds. There’s lots of proof for this. I’ll mention here example number one—the fighting cock— first lord and king of all those Persians,

well before the time of human kings— those Dariuses and Megabazuses. Because he was their king, the cock’s still called the Persian Bird.

That’s why to this very day the cock’s the only bird to strut about like some great Persian king, and on his head he wears his crown erect.

He was so great,

so mighty and so strong, that even now, thanks to his power then, when he sings out his early morning song, all men leap up

to head for work—blacksmiths, potters, tanners,

men who deal in corn or supervise the baths, or make our shields or fabricate our lyres— they all lace on their shoes and set off in the dark.

I can vouch for that! I had some bad luck, thanks to that cock—I lost my cloak to thieves, a soft and warm one, too, of Phrygian wool. I’d been invited to a festive do, where some child was going to get his name, right here in the city. I’d had some drinks—

and those drinks, well, they made me fall asleep. Before the other guests began to eat, that bird lets rip his cock-a-doodle-doo! I thought it was the early morning call. So I run off for Halimus—but then, just outside the city walls, I get mugged, some coat thief hits me square across the back— he used a cudgel! When I fall down there, about to cry for help, he steals my cloak!

To resume—way back then the Kite was king.

He ruled the Greeks.

King of the Greeks!!

That’s right. As king he was the first to show us how

to grovel on the ground before a kite.

By Dionysus, I once saw a kite and rolled along the ground, then, on my back, my mouth wide open, gulped an obol down. I had to trudge home with an empty sack.

Take Egypt and Phoenicia—they were ruled by Cuckoo kings. And when they cried “Cuckoooo!!” all those Phoenicians harvested their crop—

the wheat and barley in their fields.

That’s why if someone’s cock is ploughing your wife’s field, we call you “Cuckoo!”—you’re being fooled!

The kingship of the birds was then so strong that in the cities of the Greeks a king— an Agamemnon, say, or Menelaus— had a bird perched on his regal sceptre. And it got its own share of all the gifts

to grovel on the ground before a kite.

By Dionysus, I once saw a kite and rolled along the ground, then, on my back, my mouth wide open, gulped an obol down. I had to trudge home with an empty sack.

Take Egypt and Phoenicia—they were ruled by Cuckoo kings. And when they cried “Cuckoooo!!” all those Phoenicians harvested their crop—

the wheat and barley in their fields.

That’s why if someone’s cock is ploughing your wife’s field, we call you “Cuckoo!”—you’re being fooled!

The kingship of the birds was then so strong that in the cities of the Greeks a king— an Agamemnon, say, or Menelaus— had a bird perched on his regal sceptre. And it got its own share of all the gifts

the king received.

Now, that I didn’t know. I always get amazed in tragedies

when some king Priam comes on with a bird. I guess it stands on guard there, keeping

watch to see what presents Lysicrates gets.

Here’s the weirdest proof of all—lord Zeus who now commands the sky, because he’s king, carries an eagle on his head. There’s more— his daughter has an owl, and Apollo, like a servant, has a hawk.

That’s right, by Demeter! What’s the reason for those birds?

So when someone makes a sacrifice

and then, in accordance with tradition, puts the guts into god’s hands, the birds can seize those entrails well before Zeus can. Back then no man would swear upon the gods— they swore their oaths on birds. And even now,

our Lampon seals his promises “By Goose,” when he intends to cheat. In days gone by, all men considered you like that—as great and sacred beings. Now they all think of you as slaves and fools and useless layabouts.

They throw stones at you, as if you’re mad. And every hunter in the temples there sets up his traps—all those nooses, gins, limed sticks and snares, fine mesh and hunting nets, and cages, too. Then once they’ve got you trapped, they sell you by the bunch. Those who come to buy poke and prod your flesh. If you seem good to eat,

they don’t simply roast you by yourself—no! They grate on cheese, mix oil and silphium with vinegar—and then whip up a sauce,

oily and sweet, which they pour on you hot, as if you were a chunk of carrion meat.

This human speaks of our great pain our fathers’ sins

we mourn again— born into rule, they threw away what they received, their fathers’ sway.

But now you’ve come— fine stroke of fate— to save our cause. Here let me state I’ll trust myself and all my chicks to help promote your politics.

You need to stick around to tell us all what we should do. Our lives won’t be worth living

unless by using every scheme there is we get back what’s ours—our sovereignty.

Then the first point I’d advise you of is this:

there should be one single city of the birds. Next, you should encircle the entire air, all this space between the earth and heaven, with a huge wall of baked brick—like Babylon.

O Kebriones and Porphyrion! What a mighty place! How well fortified!

When you’ve completed that, demand from Zeus

he give you back your rule. If he says no, he doesn’t want to and won’t sign on at once, you then declare a holy war on him. Tell those gods they can’t come through your space with cocks erect, the way they used to do, rushing down to screw another woman— like Alkmene, Semele, or Alope. For if you ever catch them coming down you’ll stamp your seal right on their swollen pricks—

they won’t be fucking women any more.

And I’d advise you send another bird as herald down to human beings to say that since the birds from now on will be kings, they have to offer sacrifice to them. The offerings to the gods take second place. Then each of the gods must be closely matched with an appropriate bird. So if a man is offering Athena holy sacrifice, he must first give the Coot some barley corn. If sacrificing sheep to god Poseidon,

let him bring toasted wheat grains to the Duck. And anyone who’s going to sacrifice to Hercules must give the Cormorant some honey cakes. A ram for Zeus the king? Then first, because the Wren is king of birds, ahead of Zeus himself, his sacrifice requires the worshipper to execute an uncastrated gnat.

I like that bit

about the slaughtered gnat. Now thunder on, great Zan.

But how will humans think of us as gods

and not just jackdaws flying around on wings?

A foolish question. Hermes is a god, and he has wings and flies—so do others, all sorts of them. There’s Victory, for one, with wings of gold. And Eros is the same. Then there’s Iris—just like a timorous dove, that’s what Homer says.

But what if Zeus lets his thunder peal, then fires down on us his lightning bolt—that’s got wings as well.

Now, if people in their stupidity

think nothing of you and keep worshipping Olympian gods, then a large cloud of birds, of rooks and sparrows, must attack their farms, devouring all the seed. And as they starve, let Demeter then dole out grain to them.

She won’t be willing to do that, by Zeus. She’ll make excuses—as you’ll see.

Then as a test, the ravens can peck out their livestock’s eyes, the ones that pull the ploughs to work the land, and other creatures, too. Let Apollo

make them better—he’s the god of healing. That’s why he gets paid.

But you can’t do this ’til I’ve sold my two little oxen first.

But if they think of you as god, as life, as Earth, as Cronos and Poseidon, too, then all good things will come to them.

Tell me what these good things are.

Well, for starters, locusts won’t eat the blossoms on their vines. The owls and kestrels in just one platoon will rid them of those pests. Mites and gall wasps

won’t devour the figs. One troop of thrushes will eradicate them one and all.

But how will we make people wealthy? That’s what they mostly want.

When people come petitioning your shrines, the birds can show the mining sites that pay. They’ll tell the priest the profitable routes for trade. That way no captain of a ship will be wiped out.

Why won’t those captains come to grief?

They’ll always ask the birds about the trip.

Their seer will say, “A storm is on the way. Don’t sail just yet” or “Now’s the time to sail— you’ll turn a tidy profit.”

Hey, that’s for me— I’ll buy a merchant ship and take command. I won’t be staying with you.

Birds can show men the silver treasures of their ancestors, buried in the ground so long ago. For birds know where these are. Men always say,

“No one knows where my treasure lies, no one, except perhaps some bird.”

I’ll sell my boat.

I’ll buy a spade and dig up tons of gold.

How will we provide for human health? Such things dwell with the gods.

If they’re doing well, is that not giving them good health?

You’re right. A man whose business isn’t very sound is never medically well.

All right, but how will they get old? That’s something, too, Olympian gods bestow. Must they die young?

No, no, by god. The birds will add on years, three hundred more.

And where will those come from?

From the birds’ supply. You know the saying, “Five human lifetimes lives the cawing crow.”

My word, these birds are much more qualified

to govern us than Zeus.

Far better qualified! First, we don’t have to build them holy shrines, made out of stone, or put up golden doors to decorate their sanctuaries. They live beneath the bushes and young growing trees. As for the prouder birds, an olive grove will be their temple. When we sacrifice,

no need to go to Ammon or to Delphi— we’ll just stand among arbutus trees

or oleasters with an offering— barley grains or wheat—uttering our prayers, our arms outstretched, so from them we receive our share of benefits. And these we’ll gain by throwing them a few handfuls of grain.

Old man, how much you’ve been transformed for me— From my worst enemy into my friend, my dearest friend. These strategies of yours—

I’ll not abandon them, not willingly.

The words you’ve said make us rejoice— and so we’ll swear with just one voice an oath that if you stand with me—