cleanpoemswhat am I
I am the black child of a white father, a wingless bird, flying even to the clouds of heaven. I give birth to tears of mourning in pupils that meet me, even though there is no cause for grief, and at once on my birth I am dissolved into air. What am I?
Four jolly men sat down to play,
and played all night till break of day.
They played for gold and not for fun,
with separate scores for every one.
Yet when they came to square accounts,
they all had made quite fair amounts!
Can you the paradox explain?
If no one lost, how could all gain?
The players were musician.animalcleanpoemsshortwhat am I
To you, rude would I never be,
Though I flag my tongue for all to see.
What am I?
Alive as you but without breath,
As cold in my life as in my death;
Never a thirst though I always drink,
Dressed in a mail but never a clink.
A container without hinges, lock or a key, yet a golden treasure lies inside me. What am I?
Branches grow on its head; it wears spotted clothes. Not a donkey of a horse, it runs like the wind.
Dipping, glinting, gliding by,
Rainbow-fretted, wrought of breath.
I live only while I fly –
Earth’s rough kiss my sudden death.
A soap bubble.