Whether old Homer tippled wine or beer, Julep or cider, history is not clear; But plain it is-the bard, though want to roam, But for one liquid, never had left home. What is it?
I make ash, but I’m not a bonfire.
I can expel rocks, but I’m not a slingshot.
I can be a mountain, but I’m not in the Himalayas.
I have a crater, but I’m not the Moon.
I erupt, but I don't have a bad temper.
What am I?
We’re very large though we seem small,
We float on high and never fall,
We shine like jewels in the night,
But in the day concealed from sight.
What are we?
Riddle me, riddle me, rin-е-go, mother gave me some seeds to sow. The seeds were black, the ground was white. If you riddle me that, you'll escape my bite.
What are they?
It is energy and motion, it can fly across the ocean.
It can listen and even speak, it can see and even seek.
It eats neither fruit nor gruel, it eats energy and fuel.
Better say: It doesn't eat; It is transformed into heat.
What is it?
The shape of my form will waver and bend
By the things I’m destroying and those I will rend.
My color changes from bright red to blue,
The power I’m using will dictate my hue.
What am I?
My step is slow, and I breathe snow.
To the ground, I bring death.
My marching brings an end to me,
I'm slain by the sun or engulfed by the sea.
What am I?
I am all that you see, yet I’m nothing at all, and from you, I will flee.
Formed of deception, I will twist your perception.
Wherever I'm rising, I warp the horizon.
What am I?
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