Cold-hearted sculptor, shaping with transparent elegance, I crack under pressure and melt in warmth.

I have crowned heroes, Decorated generals, Sold illusions, And clarified lies. Some chase me their entire lives. Some earn me for a job well done. Some print me beside conditions they hope you'll ignore. Yet every morning, One of my kind rises without applause. What am I?

Between the peaks I rest below, where winding rivers often go. Though low I lie, life gathers near, a quiet cradle year by year.

Temperature and storms make me common small talk, indoors I am controlled, outdoors I may turn violent. This or that, one choice or another, sometimes the decision rests on a whim.

I swallow rivers, vast and deep, My layered walls, ancient secrets keep. What am I, where echoes sleep?