A thousand colored folds stretch toward the sky, Atop a tender strand, Rising from the land, 'Til killed by maiden's hand, Perhaps a token of love, perhaps to say goodbye.
A flower
Can run but never walks, Has a mouth and never talks, Has a head but never weeps, Has a bed but never sleeps.
A river
Red through and through, it has no mouth. But it eats many things; it fears water but not wind.
Fire
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