From his western gate fly the Sun-darts,
Their points trained up at Hualalai—
The wind from Kaú breathes a blessing.
Pray tell me, what skirts wear the women?
Their skirts are fern and leaf of the ti
Bound bias about the hips, O Kini;
One horn of the sickle moon hangs low;
My patience faints at her knife-like lips
And I fear the Goddess’s yawning mouth.
Deep, deep is the tabu, deep be the peace!