I’m taken by force on the open sea, A pirate’s prize of victory. In chests I rest, in maps I’m shown, a stolen wealth that’s not your own.

In general, I never expire, but on the table, I’m made less stable, with iodine and chloride. A former staple, a traded commodity, once tied to soldiers’ wages. Too much can hurt you, not enough leaves things bland; have you figured out, just what I am?

I'm known for my melancholy, A symbol of past druidry. You may find me in a cemetery Or where water whispers quietly.

A single glass guardian, perched high with pride, keeps one eye keen while the other hides. A fashion of the past, a lens of the elite. Balanced on the bridge, a vision discreet.

I am a symbol of French cuisine, but my origins can be traced back to thirteenth century Austria. Making me by hand takes a lot of time.