Steel veins stretching across vast lands, guiding iron beasts to distant towns, where whistles echo in the morning mist.

I can be Dutch or French, among others. Wheel or wedge, or grated for all that matters. I can have mold but don't throw me away. Not all mold is bad per se.

I have a few well-known versions, including a Lonely one and a kitchen one. There’s also one where very wealthy and famous people have been to, and there’s a big kerfuffle about what they were up to while on me.

Grow in caves from the ceiling, Slow I am made by water dripping.

Where whispers of the wind do sway, On frozen plains that chill the day. A barren blanket, white and vast, Where gentle giants wander past.