I exist as a colour and a spice, but I am not as bright as others in either. You might find me in flowers, too.

I build up castles, I tear down mountains, I make some men blind, I help others to see. What am I?

Freed from stone, skimmed from food Raised from sand, squeezed from wood Washed from flesh or pressed from fruit Oceans bloodied for this loot

I am full of pasta of many types, though to my small stature I gripe. I am denser than I appear, so stay far and stay clear, no trip’s worth my deadly hype.

I eat without a mouth, swallow without a throat. I rage and rest in endless quarters. I bear wealth to some, ruin to others. You can not catch me, yet I can claim all. And in my presence, even mountains fall.