Deep within the mountain's chest, I offer bats a place to rest, Enter my mouth of cold, dark stone.

Stone kisses still pond Circles whisper outward, slow Water remembers

I grow on branches and come in red or green, I’m crisp when fresh and sweet when eaten. I have a core but no heart, And my name once tempted knowledge at the start.

A gentle whisper in fabric's weave, a soft shield on a peach's skin, the tender shroud of an old TV screen's static dream.

I'm heard when fear makes lesser people flee, that others would condemn with mockery. A soldier shot to fame by cooking me, as did a sailor fond of greenery.