Who said there are no poets any more?
There they are, croaking their message in the lake, evading imminent disaster. There they go, to return safely after ten whole days into the rubble and dust. But no one will have listened. Dionysus was waylaid. Aeschylus and Euripedes dead and bickering. Even Aristophanes only hums a distant tune. To hell and back without a hope.
But this is Italy, not Greece. The frogs are toads now, too. The court jester is king. He tells the townsfolk to take a holiday while the walls crumble.
No one hears the poetry of toads.