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Many things can create one, it can be of any shape or size, it is created for various reasons, and it can shrink or grow with time. What is it?
They have not flesh, nor feathers, nor scales, nor bone. Yet they have fingers and thumbs of their own. What are they?
Not born, but from a Mother's body drawn, I hang until half of me is gone. I sleep in a cave until I grow old, then valued for my hardened gold. What am I?
Black I am and much admired, men seek me until they're tired. When they find me, they break my head, and take from me my resting bed. What am I?
This is as light as a feather, yet no man can hold it for long. What am I?
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?
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?
I am a Butterfly.
I was carried into a dark room, and set on fire. I wept, and then my head was cut off. What am I?
Mountains will crumble and temples will fall, and no man can survive its endless call. What is it?
This old one runs forever, but never moves at all. He has not lungs nor throat, but still a mighty roaring call. What is it?