In fire I fall, in ash I sleep, yet death itself I do not keep. From cinders cold my wings are spun, what am I, the deathless one?

A silent guardian of the park, offering rest beneath the shade, where stories meet and secrets fade.

Warriors wear me without forging, birds bear me without burden. I stand where color shouts its loudest, yet vanish when waves flatten.

On vast sandy seas ye must roam, Where the sun be the king of the dome. No water in sight, Just heat and sunlight, A land where no ships find a home.

I glow without flame, die without air, and live in the hearth with a fading light. What am I?