on those sacred snow-bound mountain peaks, or form the holy choruses with nymphs in gardens of their father Ocean, or gather up the waters of the Nile in golden flagons at the river’s mouths, or dwell beside the marsh of Maeotis or snowy rocks of Mimas—hear my call, accept my sacrifice, and then rejoice in this holy offering I make.

Everlasting Clouds—

let us arise, let us reveal our moist and natural radiance— moving from the roaring deep of father Ocean to the tops of tree-lined mountain peaks,

where we see from far away the lofty heights, the sacred earth, whose fruits we feed with water, the murmuring of sacred rivers, the roaring of the deep-resounding sea.

For the unwearied eye of heaven blazes forth its glittering beams. Shake off this misty shapelessness from our immortal form and gaze upon the earth with our far-reaching eyes.

O you magnificent and holy Clouds, you’ve clearly heard my call.

Did you hear that voice intermingled with the awesome growl of thunder?

O you most honoured sacred goddesses, in answer to your thunder-call I’d like to fart—

it’s made me so afraid—if that’s all right . . .

Oh, oh, whether right nor not, I need to shit.

Stop being so idiotic, acting like a stupid damn comedian. Keep quiet. A great host of deities is coming here— they’re going to sing.

O you maidens bringing rain— let’s move on to that brilliant place,

to gaze upon the land of Pallas, where such noble men inhabit Cecrops’ lovely native home, where they hold those sacred rites no one may speak about, where the temple of the mysteries is opened up in holy festivals, with gifts for deities in heaven, what lofty temples, holy statues, most sacred supplication to the gods, with garlands for each holy sacrifice, and festivals of every kind

in every season of the year, including, when the spring arrives, that joyful Dionysian time, with rousing choruses of song, resounding music of the pipes.

By god, Socrates, tell me, I beg you, who these women are who sing so solemnly. Are they some special kind of heroines?

No—they’re heavenly Clouds, great goddesses for lazy men—from them we get our thoughts,

our powers of speech, our comprehension, our gift for fantasy and endless talk, our power to strike responsive chords in speech and then rebut opponents’ arguments.

Ah, that must be why, as I heard their voice, my soul took wing, and now I’m really keen to babble on of trivialities, to argue smoke and mirrors, to deflate

opinions with a small opinion of my own, to answer someone’s reasoned argument

with my own counter-argument. So now, I’d love to see them here in front of me, if that’s possible.

Just look over there— towards Mount Parnes. I see them coming, slowly moving over here.

Where? Point them out.

They’re coming down here through the valleys— a whole crowd of them—there in the thickets, right beside you.

This is weird. I don’t see them.

There—in the entrance way.

Ah, now I see— but I can barely make them out.

There—

surely you can see them now, unless your eyes are swollen up like pumpkins.

I see them. My god, what worthy noble presences! They’re taking over the entire space.

You weren’t aware that they are goddesses? You had no faith in them?

I’d no idea. I thought clouds were mist and dew and vapour.

You didn’t realize these goddesses support a multitude of charlatans— prophetic seers from Thurium, quacks

who specialize in books on medicine, lazy long-haired types with onyx signet rings, poets who produce the twisted choral music for dithyrambic songs, those with airy minds— all such men so active doing nothing the Clouds support, since in their poetry these people celebrate the Clouds.

Ah ha, so that’s why they poeticize ”the whirling radiance of watery clouds as they advance so ominously,”

”waving hairs of hundred-headed Typho,” with “roaring tempests,” and then “liquid breeze,” or ”crook-taloned, sky-floating birds of prey,” ”showers of rain from dewy clouds”—and then, as a reward for this, they stuff themselves on slices carved from some huge tasty fish or from a thrush.

Yes, thanks to these Clouds.

Is that not truly just?

All right, tell me this— if they’re really clouds, what’s happened to them? They look just like mortal human women.

The clouds up there are not the least like that.

What are they like?

I don’t know exactly. They look like wool once it’s been pulled apart— not like women, by god, not in the least. These ones here have noses.

Let me ask you something. Will you answer me?

Ask me what you want. Fire away.

Have you ever gazed up there and seen a cloud shaped like a centaur, or a leopard, wolf, or bull?

Yes, I have. So what?

They become anything they want to be.

So if they see some hairy savage type, one of those really wild and wooly men, like Xenophantes’ son, they mock his moods, transforming their appearance into centaurs.

Is that not truly just?

All right, tell me this— if they’re really clouds, what’s happened to them? They look just like mortal human women.

The clouds up there are not the least like that.

What are they like?

I don’t know exactly. They look like wool once it’s been pulled apart— not like women, by god, not in the least. These ones here have noses.

Let me ask you something. Will you answer me?

Ask me what you want. Fire away.

Have you ever gazed up there and seen a cloud shaped like a centaur, or a leopard, wolf, or bull?

Yes, I have. So what?

They become anything they want to be.

So if they see some hairy savage type, one of those really wild and wooly men, like Xenophantes’ son, they mock his moods, transforming their appearance into centaurs.

What if they glimpse a thief of public funds, like Simon? What do they do then?

They expose just what he’s truly like—they change at once, transform themselves to wolves.

Ah ha, I see. So that’s why yesterday they changed to deer. They must have caught sight of Cleonymos—

the man who threw away his battle shield— they knew he was fearful coward.

And now it’s clear they’ve seen Cleisthenes— that’s why, as you can see, they’ve changed to women.

All hail to you, lady goddesses. And now, if you have ever spoken out to other men, let me hear your voice, you queenly powers.

Greetings to you, old man born long ago, hunter in love with arts of argument—

you, too, high priest of subtlest nonsense, tell us what you want. Of all the experts