A sea of stars that slowly swirls, with shining lights in cosmic whorls. Too vast to hold, yet all you see, a greater whole of mystery.

I collect stamps but send no mail, yet without me many journeys fail.

In shadows deep, where secrets creep, a keeper of chains and whispered fears. Within its bounds, adventure stirs, yet escape is but a dream that blurs.

I have trees but sell no wood, I have grass but grow no farm, people spread their blankets on me eat their lunch and come to calm, kids run wild and dogs run free yet no one owns a single tree and in a city full of rush I am the one green breathing hush. What am I

Diogenes carried me without owning me. Zeno could never finish crossing me. Borges filled me with libraries, yet left me unexplored. Empires claimed me, cartographers scarred me. I am measured but never held, occupied yet never grasped, divided but never cut. Every kingdom begins with me, and every grave receives me. What am I?