Riddles (Page 1)
Gashed by iron, gored by the point of it,
Sick of battle-work, battered and scarred.
Many a fearful fight have I seen, when
Hope there was none, or helping the thick of it,
Ere I was down and fordone in the fray.
Offspring of hammers, hardest of battle-blades,
Smithied in forges, fell on me savagely,
Doomed to bear the brunt and shock of it,
Fierce encounter of clashing foes,
Leech cannot heal my hurts with his simples,
Salves and sores have I sought in vain.
Blade cuts dolorous, deep in the side of me,
Daily and nightly redouble my wounds.
It is the son of water, but if water touches it, it dies.
A golden bird did in its mouth abide
The serpent drank the water, this in turn
Killed the serpent. Then the gold bird died.
My tines are short
My tines end ere
My first report
And open up our stomachs
You will be the wisest of men
Though at start a lummox
For crust of bread
His cry goes unheard
It's far overhead
Pile on stones,
My mind will always
Dig up them bones
And an early morning sky
How are they the same?
Twice in every moment
And yet never in one hundred thousand years.
Yet flying swiftly past;
For a child I last forever,
For adults I'm gone too fast.
Harnessed in a pair, and
Gazing ever in places
Distant from them.
To be gold is to be good;
To be stone is to be nothing;
To be glass is to be fragile;
To be cold is to be cruel.
Unmetaphored, what am I?
Altar of the Lupine Lords.
Jewel on black velvet, pearl in the sea
Unchanged but e'er changing, eternally.
sitting in the rain
I shot and killed a quarter of them
How many do remain?
Answer 1: 2x(4+20)=48, if 1/4 of 48 are shot (12) ... these 12 will remain (dead) and the rest will fly away.
Answer 2: Upon shooting any of the birds, the rest will all fly away. So the answer could be "none."
Answer 3: 2x(4+20)=48, if 1/4 of 48 are shot (12) ... there will be 36 birds left (48-12=36).
Last will be first
And all in between will also be cursed
Open the door and the thing will be there
So be carefull and beware!
It has a golden tail
but it has no body.
With a stinging bite,
I'll stay coiled up,
Unless I must fight.
That one red leaf, nearest of its clan,
Which dances as often as dance it can.
And by day they are lost without being stolen
From tables in the sky
By inadventant fingers dropped
The awful cutlery.
Of mansions never quite disclosed
And never quite concealed,
The apparatus of the dark
To ignorance revealed.
Maker of worn wood,