Wakea, in earnest, would know,
What demon’s a-grubbing below?
I am the worker, says Pele:
Oahu I pierced to the quick,
A crater white-heated by Pele.
Now morn lights one edge of the sky;
The light streams up, the shadows fall down;
There’s a clatter of tools deep down.
Wakea, in passion, demands,
What god this who digs ’neath the ground?