Metal or plastic vessels, their purpose to rain down life gently on green soldiers standing in rows, nurturers of thirsty roots, they perform a dance of droplets from their spouted mouths.

Buried deep where ages lie, I watched the countless years go by. No breath I take, no voice I own, for now I’m cast in hardened stone.

No bag for collecting treats not tricks? Use this instead

Cold, yet I carry fire inside. My wound becomes your light. Older than the blade beside, I sharpened every ancient fight. Break me: I only grow more keen. The coldest fire ever seen.

On the floor and trod upon But, not downtrodden. First three moves you. Without a step Last three is sometimes Underfoot.