You get many of me, but never enough.
After the last one, your life soon will snuff.
You may have one of me but one day a year,
When the last one is gone, your life disappears.
What am I?
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What is Medusa’s favorite cheese?
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I’m by nature solitary, scarred by spear
and wounded by sword, weary of battle.
I frequently see the face of war, and fight
hateful enemies; yet I hold no hope
of help being brought to me in the battle,
before I’m eventually done to death.
In the stronghold of the city sharp-edged swords,
skilfully forged in the flame by smiths,
bite deeply into me. I can but await
a more fearsome encounter; it is not for me
to discover in the city any of those doctors
who heal grievous wounds with roots and herbs.
The scars from sword wounds gape wider and wider;
death blows are dealt to me by day and by night.
What am I?
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I have four legs but never walk
I may be covered in flowers but have no soil
I hold food three times a day but never eat a meal.
What am I?
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Within, I clean all that is bad and is old.
I make juice that’s the color of gold.
Should i die, a filter machine would you need assembled
To replace me, and beans I resemble.
What am I?
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