Fog blots out the forest-heights of the Pit;
Uwé-kahuna’s plain is bitter cold—
A mist that creeps up from the sea,
A mist that creeps down from the mount;
Puna’s dim distant hills are burning—
A glancing of torches—rainbow colors—
The whole assembly of women.
In pity and love they stand before us;
They form the first line of battle
And they make up the second line.