It seems to be a work left behind by an unknown poet from the earliest ages of ancient Benzaitengoku, when poetry had not yet vanished. This should be the opening scroll of one of those works.
At a time when frogs had no need to croak in the dark night,
their chorus wasn't as noisy as it is today,
and reeds had just sprouted in the marshland back then.
Before tiny fish, mealworms, and shrimp came to be,
the frogs would fish in the crystal-clear gulf current,
paddling their canoes tirelessly day and night.
Beautiful sailfish, swordfish, and of course, tuna,
all slowly fermented under the sun,
turning into the most exquisite soup stock.
One day, the frogs became puzzled:
With so much food in the world,
why must they eat the dried meat passed down from their great-grandparents?
They sank their offerings into the mud,
and wished upon the sacred tree in the marsh for new delicious food.
Food that would melt in their mouths,
food that would be absolutely fresh.
So the sacred tree smoothed the earth's head,
using starlight reflected in rippling water like hair,
to create tiny fish, mealworms, and shrimp.
Time passed this way,
as the fast-paced frogs lived happily each day.
But they grew more accustomed to the mud,
ambushing prey in the darkness,
croaking in crowds on spring nights,
and scorned with mocking glances,
even by their own kind.
Frogs perish in brine and burning sun
Their dreams are but the eternity of bubbles
A field of hardship is never yearned for
The cheers of the lowly echo through the market
The primal frog has turned to stone
Feigning elegance, gazing at the ocean from the waterside
The visage of marble, corroded by rain
Just enough to ascend the halls of art
The arena roars with sound
The grandest praise belongs to the mob
Overhead, the heavy air presses down
Hymns to aether fluids carving new shapes
The revelry of a poison
A scroll of rotting hide
Congealed magma
The frozen moon
The morning sickness of the elite
The deathly faint of the dregs
Frogs do not perish in bring and burning sun
The frogs' memories aren't their own,
They have origins in the abyss.
Back then, everything was starting to take form,
Consuming the moon's calendar.
The sky scribbles and doodles,
The ocean smears and erases,
Creating tedious cycles,
Conjuring nonexistent meanings.
Floating grease in chimneys,
Sulfur and iron's power sold in bulk.
Contests of severing tails,
Self-digesting celestial bodies.
The blind who record “light,”
Cursed machines of “mass production.”
Nonexistent memories originating from the abyss,
Everything so reversed,
Everything so detached.
The frogs sing at the top of their lungs,
Praising the most loyal betrayal,
Worshiping the most shameful deity.