I stretch through space, yet hold things tight, a cosmic spiral of distant light.

I wander far on wings of mail, a lightweight traveler, thin and frail. Stamped with care, no wrapper's hide, just ink and views from lands I've spied. From beach or peak, a memory's trace, greetings short in a pictured space. No box confines my brief delight, connecting hearts through day and night.

In quiet halls where echoes play, hidden from the world's fray. A realm where whispers softly weave, a tranquil haven you won't leave.

A plane crashed on the border of Iran and Pakistan. Where are the survivors buried

A canopy above with a carpet of grass, where whispers of breeze meet the ceaseless chatter of crowds; a roof without walls, hosting gatherings proud. What am I?