My great chambers filled with portraits of the dead. My hallways lined with tablets adorned with numbers, valued only in your head. I may be graced with pictures of those you hold most dear, you’ll entomb and crush me, pinned beneath your rear.

I can be both sweet and sour, I make certain people cower. I am quite famous in stories and tales. My seed, when potent, can turn people pale.

I have a lens, but I do not have a eye. I am often seen in the hands in front of you.

I have cities, but no houses. I have mountains, but no trees. I have water, but no fish. What am I?

I'm full of holes yet I catch and hold, I'm woven tight but let things through, I work by trapping what tries to pass.