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

Throw me, hit me, crack me open, I get scattered by the ocean Turned to sand and dust at last, but life was never in my past Another way to gently sway, while knitting quietly all day But granny doesn’t like my tune, for she prefers a soft bassoon

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.