The ending of a holiday bird And also for a pack animal that lives in a herd. Three little letters, one syllable long, The most important thing to know before playing a song.

I hung in gardens of emperors and kings, A jewel of purple in medieval springs. Preserved in brandy, baked into a pie, Sought by monks where old orchards lie. Not apple nor pear, though kin I assume What fruit am I?

I travel the world but never walk You can hear me but I can’t talk I carve mountains grain by grain And can shape deserts without touching sand

What's strong enough to smash ships but still fears the sun?

I shimmer beyond your night-lit skies A chained princess where starlight lies Not a goddess yet named the same A spiral sea of cosmic flame. What am I?