Their fruit he would string ’bout his neck;
Their fruit he finds wilted and crushed,
Mere rubbish to litter the road—
Ah, the perfume! Pana-ewa is drunk with the scent;
The breath of it spreads through the groves.
Vainly flares the old king’s passion,
Craving a sauce for his meat and mine.
The summer has flown; winter has come:
Ah, that is the head of our troubles.
Palsied are you and helpless am I;