Riddle:
Within, I clean all that is bad and old. I make juice that's the color of gold. Should I die, a filter machine would you need to assemble to replace me, and a bean I resemble... What am I?
Riddle:
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?
Riddle:
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?
Riddle:
I have four of these, With matching extremities. They can do many things, And hardly ever bring me pain. Unless I stick them with a pin, Or burn them sometimes when... What is it that I can wiggle at will? And use in other means still?