Mountains will crumble and temples will fall, and no man can survive its endless call.
What is it?
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I was carried into a dark room, and set on fire. I wept, and then my head was cut off. What am I?
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A very pretty thing am I, fluttering in the pale-blue sky. Delicate, fragile on the wing, indeed I am a pretty thing. What am I?
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I am not alive, but I grow; I don’t have lungs, but I need air; I don’t have a mouth, but water kills me. What am I?
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This is as light as a feather, yet no man can hold it for long. What is it?
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