I never grow old and I never decay, I was even found where the pharaohs once lay. A term of endearment your sweetheart might say, made by small gatherers that work hard all day. I'm stored in waxy hexagons, perfectly aligned, a geometric treasure that’s one of a kind.

My ribs are carved from forest bone, my voice from equines tail. I wail when bows run through my hair, and hush when fingers fail.

What falls but never breaks, and breaks but never falls?

Not from sun, yet still I gleam, a quiet night’s reflected beam.

my golden oil can be considered a sacrifice in a volcano, cultivated by the gods of olympus. What am I?