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 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?

Two lips to part, but no words to speak, yet still I sound both sharp and sleek. In sports I reign, in trains I call, a breath of air, is required, that’s all!

I have a row of teeth, but I do not have a mouth. I am often seen in bathroom countertops.

I cage the endless in numbered tombs. Twelve watchers circle above seven footsteps that never rest. I steal hours, resurrect them, and sometimes consume a day whole. Tear me apart and I still whisper where your fate lies.