With feathery tail I fly with skill My beak is sharp enough to kill I have no wings or eyes or ear My only sound a whistling, hear

Researchers looking for a cure discovered humanity’s future, And after giving medicinal uses a try, came fire and sparks that rose up high. Though many saw beauty in colored flame, it was ensuing violence that gave this its name.

A sigil of a victory, I make commitments true. A sign my form is starting to fail is when the air is blue. Collected by many, and cherished dear, To form their personal hoards, You may have met me by land of green hills, Or a novel about my lord.

What has thirteen hearts, but no other organs?

I hold a song but have no voice, A prison born from someone’s choice. Though built with care and often bright, I turn free flight to captive sight.