Hark, thou humble orb that dost hold secrets untold, encased in alabaster, thou art life's own mold. From thee springs the dawn of myriad forms, a fragile fortress in which something small warms

An iron rod that stirs a fire; A game where luck meets skill. I help to keep the flame alive; You’ll bluff when cards don’t thrill.

If you take away one hand, some will remain.

I wear no shoes but leave a track, the journey home is never long back. Slow and steady is my game, though racing’s in my fabled name. In rain I glide, in sun I hide, with horns that from my head do slide.

I am married, yet I remain alone. I am celestial but not sentient. I'm lighter than water, yet bigger than oceans.