Some say I hold things steady Or I'm lightning from the blue I'm also fabric, rolled and ready And I'll dash away from you

Born in fire from powdered stones, A fragile sheet from Gaia's bones. Smooth of surface, rather hard - will cut deep with a broken shard. This stuff sounds difficult to view: you don't look at it, you look through.

I am a weaver, though some of me consume the woven. I am covered in scales, though no reptile should be chosen. Sometimes I set myself ablaze, or appear as an omen.

In endless turns, I pirouette in grace, a dance unseen in cosmic space. A staircase into the unknown, where secrets of the vast are shown.

I am born of mountains, yet I am no stone. Too many to number, yet each of me is nearly none. I shift without breath, travel without legs, and though I lie silent, I can drown an entire city. What am I?