I am born in flour and water, shaped by patient hands. I rise in warmth, then turn golden in fire. In Paris, I line bakery windows at dawn and vanish quickly by noon, loved in many forms but simple at heart.

I rise above the City of Light, built of iron for a temporary purpose. Once called ugly, now iconic. I’ve seen revolutions and peace, and I sparkle over a river dividing old from new.

I can be of gold, iron or salt, What am I?

I have arms but no hands, and a bridge with no water. I have to stick close to your face unless I fall off.

Some keep ice, an Igloo’s nice. A cold front brings this air to life. A pillow’s other side at night. Too hot to eat? Wait for this to bite.