you’ve come. And now you’re here with me. Pour forth your melody. Pipe out the lovely sounds of spring, a prelude to my rhythmic speech in every melody you sing.

Come now, you men out there, who live such dark, sad lives— you’re frail, just like a race of leaves—you’re shaped from clay, you tribes of insubstantial shadows without wings, you creatures of a day, unhappy mortal men, you figures from a dream, now turn your minds to us, the eternal, deathless, air-borne, ageless birds, whose wisdom never dies, so you may hear from us the truth about celestial things, about the birds—

how they sprang into being, how the gods arose, how rivers, Chaos, and dark Erebus were formed— about all this you’ll learn the truth. And so from me tell Prodicus in future to depart. At the start,

there was Chaos, and Night, and pitch-black Erebus, and spacious Tartarus. There was no earth, no heaven, no atmosphere. Then in the wide womb of Erebus, that boundless space, black-winged Night, first creature born, made pregnant by the wind, once laid an egg. It hatched, when seasons came around, and out of it sprang Love— the source of all desire, on his back the glitter of his golden wings, just like the swirling whirlwind. In broad Tartarus, Love had sex with murky Chaos. From them our race was born—our first glimpse of the light.

Before that there was no immortal race at all, not before Love mixed all things up. But once they’d bred

and blended in with one another, Heaven was born, Ocean and Earth—and all that clan of deathless gods. Thus, we’re by far the oldest of all blessed ones, for we are born from Love. There’s lots of proof for this. We fly around the place, assisting those in love— the handsome lads who swear they’ll never bend for sex, but who, as their young charms come to an end, agree to let male lovers bugger them, thanks to the birds,

our power as gifts—one man gives a porphyrion, another man a quail, a third one gives a goose, and yet another offers up a Persian Fowl. All mortals’ greatest benefits come from us birds. The first is this: we make the season known—springtime, winter, autumn—it’s time to sow, as soon as Crane migrates to Lybia with all that noise. He tells

the master mariner to hang his rudder up and go to sleep awhile. He tells Orestes, too, to weave himself a winter cloak, so he won’t

freeze

when he sets out again to rip off people’s clothes. Then after that the Kite appears, to let you know another season’s here—it’s time to shear the sheep. Then Swallow comes. Now you should sell your winter cloak and get yourself a light one. So we’re your

Ammon, Delphi and Dodona—we’re your Apollo, too. See how, in all your business, you first look to birds— when you trade, buy goods, or when a man gets married. Whatever you think matters in a prophecy, you label that a bird—to you, Rumour’s a bird;

you say a sneeze or a chance meeting is a bird, a sound’s a bird, a servant’s a bird—and so’s an ass. It’s clear you look on us as your Apollo.

So you ought to make gods of your birds, your muses prophetic, whose words all year round you’ve got, unless it’s too hot. Your questions will always be heard.

And we won’t run away to a cloud and sit there like Zeus, who’s so proud—

we’re ready to give, hang out where you live, and be there for you in the crowd.

Yes, to you, your children, and their children, too,

we’ll grant wealth and health, good life, and happiness, peace, youth, laughter, dances, festivals of song— and birds’ milk, too—so much, you’ll find yourself worn out with our fine gifts—yes, that’s how rich you’ll be.

O woodland Muse Tio-tio-tio-tiotinx

my muse of varied artful song on trees and from high mountain peaks

tio-tio-tio-tiotinx to your notes I sing along in my leafy ash tree seat. tio-tio-tio-tiontinx From my tawny throat I fling my sacred melodies to Pan. In holy dance I chant and sing our mother from the mountain land.

Toto-toto-toto-toto-toto-totinx Here Phrynichus would always sip

ambrosial nectar from our tone to make sweet music of his own. tio-tio-tio-tiotinx.

If there’s someone out there in the audience who’d like to spend his future life among the birds enjoying himself, he should come to us. Here, you see, whatever is considered shameful by your laws, is all just fine among us birds. Consider this—

if your tradition says one shouldn’t beat one’s dad, up here with us it’s all right if some young bird goes at his father, hits him, cries, “You wanna fight? Then put up your spur!” If out there among you all

there is, by chance, a tattooed slave who’s run away, we’ll call him a spotted francolin. Or else, if someone happens to be Phrygian, as pure as Spintharos, he’ll be a Philemon-bred finch. If he’s like Execestides, a Carian slave, let him act the Cuckoo—steal his kin from us—

some group of citizens will claim him soon enough. And if the son of Peisias still has in mind betraying our city gates to worthless men, let him become his father’s little partridge cock— for us there’s nothing wrong with crafty partridge stock.

Tio-tio-tio-tio-tinx- That’s how the swans

massed in a crowd with rustling wings once raised aloud

Apollo’s hymn.

Tio-tio-tio-tio-tinx They sat in rows on river banks where Hebros flows. Tio-tio-tio-tio-tinx

Their song then rose through cloud and air— it cast its spell on mottled tribes

of wild beasts there— the silent sky calmed down the sea. Toto-toto-toto-toto-totinx.

Olympus rang—

amazement seized its lords and kings. Then Muses there and Graces, too, voiced their response—

Olympus sang. Tio-tio-tio-tio-tiotinx.

There’s nothing sweeter or better than growing wings. If any of you members of the audience had wings, well, if you were feeling bored or hungry with these tragic choruses, you could fly away, go home for dinner, and then, once you’d had enough, fly back to us again. Or if, by any chance, a Patrocleides sits out there among you all,

dying to shit, he wouldn’t have to risk a fart

in his own pants—he could fly off and let ’er rip, take a deep breath, and fly back down again. If it should be the case that one of you out there is having an affair, and you observe her husband sitting here, in seats reserved for Council men, well, once again, you could fly off and fuck the wife, then fly back from her place and take your seat once more. Don’t you see how having wings to fly beats everything? Just look at Diitrephes—the only wings he had were handles on his flasks of wine, but nonetheless,

they chose him to lead a squad of cavalry, then for a full command, so now, from being nobody, he carries out our great affairs—he’s now become

a tawny civic horse-cock.

Well, that’s that. By Zeus, I’ve never seen a more ridiculous sight!

What are you laughing at?

At your feathers. Have you any idea what you look like— what you most resemble with those feathers on? A goose painted by some cheap artiste!

And you look like a blackbird—one whose hair

has just been cut using a barber’s bowl.

People will now use us as metaphors— as Aeschlyus would say, “We’re shot by feathers not from someone else but of our very own.”

All right, then. What do we now need to do?

First, we have to name our city, something fine and grand. Then after that we sacrifice