I am made of mud and straw, baked in the sun, and used to make walls for buildings. What am I?

In the cosmic dance, they blaze bright, icy voyagers with fiery tails, whispering secrets of the past as they streak across the night sky, a celestial spectacle fleeting but unforgettable.

Paul Simon said you can call him the first two Guevara went by the middle three Final two, a possessive for me All together try to make base in to noble

I have no wings, yet I soar through the stars. I have no voice, yet I speak of ancient wars. I build empires from ink and paper walls, And summon dragons to echoing halls.

In times past I needed to be developed. In modern day I can simply be printed.