Bitter the sweet of Puna’s tree-awa.
His love wafts hither to me from dreamland—
The cry of the soul for love’s fond touch;
And who would forbid the soul’s demand!
Antiphone
Puna’s plain takes the color of scarlet—
Red as heart’s blood the bloom of lehua.
The nymphs of the Pit string hearts in a wreath:
Oh the pangs of the Pit, Kilauea!
Still turns my heart to Kilauea.