The divine dragon dwells in the deep abyss,
While shoals of fish delight in circling round.
Proud of their kinship to the dragon's line,
They live in ease, with no distress to fear.
At dawn they sport amid the reeking waves,
At dusk they roam through floating foam and spray.
In shallows, they brush past the distant shores;
In depths, they plunge down to the bay's far end.
Some wag their tails and gather in a crowd,
Some raise their heads in lofty arrogance.
Some brandish sharp and pointed fin-spines high,
Some gleam with scales in patterned, shining hues.
The shrimps, too, act with reckless insolence,
Heedless of their own frail and feeble frames.
They leap and flaunt their claws and whiskered jaws,
Gathering in swarms, fierce and obstinate.
The fishermen, in awe of dragon's might,
Dare not go back and forth there frequently.
They pass by in their boats with pallid faces,
Sweating with fear, their countenance dismayed.
Though they have nets and arrows at their hand,
How could they dare to cast or bend the bow?
The fish and shrimps still seethe with indignation,
Emerging, diving, as if hating wrong.
Then one day, wind and thunder stir the deep,
Waves surge and swell like mountains made of silver.
The dragon leaves its watery abyss,
And vanishes, ascending to the heavens.
The fish and shrimps, not knowing their own place,
Stubbornly strive to follow in pursuit.
They dash and charge, competing to strike upward,
Both great and small, none willing to hold back.
In but a moment, clouds and mist subside,
They fall back down, as if by heaven pruned.
Some lie exhausted on the sandy grit,
Some wounded sore amid the reedy grass.
The village boys rush out to pick them up,
The poor creatures' blood stains the far horizon.
The fishermen call out to all their mates,
Their spirits high, their faces filled with glee.
They drain the deep and gather all the catch,
No longer caring for the slightest cost.
Though fish and shrimps may now feel deep regret,
Once dead, who will lament their wretched fate?