Who makes it, has no need of it, Who buys it, has no use for it, Who uses it can neither see nor feel it. What is it?

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Alive without breath, As cold as death, Never thirsty, ever drinking, All in mail never clinking. What is it?

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Only one color, but not one size, Stuck at the bottom, yet easily flies, Present in sun, but not in rain, Doing no harm, and feeling no pain. What is it?

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With pointed fangs it sits in wait, With piercing force its doles out fate, Over bloodless victims proclaiming its might, Eternally joining in a single bite. What is it?

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What is black when you buy it, red when you use it, and gray when you throw it away?

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What can bring back the dead; make us cry, make us laugh, make us young; born in an instant yet lasts a life time?

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Where will you find roads without cars, forests without trees and cities without houses?

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All about, but cannot be seen, Can be captured, cannot be held, No throat, but can be heard. What is it?

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What does man love more than life; Fear more than death or mortal strife. What the poor have, the rich require, and what contented men desire, What the miser spends and the spendthrift saves And all men carry to their …

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Almost everyone needs it, asks for it, gives it, but almost nobody takes it. What is it?

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