I never grow old and I never decay, I was even found where the pharaohs once lay. A term of endearment your sweetheart might say, made by small gatherers that work hard all day. I'm stored in waxy hexagons, perfectly aligned, a geometric treasure that’s one of a kind.

I hold life saving liquid for when you are traveling long distances. I can also be a kitchen in which soldiers eat

The wall's oracle, it whispers the rhythm of days, months, and years, marking time's silent march with squares and numerals.

My ribs are carved from forest bone, my voice from equines tail. I wail when bows run through my hair, and hush when fingers fail.

I sit on a throne with a crown on my head, or I stay on your desk with your pencils instead.