The more of these you take, the more appear behind you.
It has a long neck,
A name of a bird,
Feeds on cargo of ships,
It's not alive,
What is it?
Within, I clean all that is bad and is old.
I make juice that's the color of gold.
Should i die, a filter machine would you need assembled
To replace me, and beans I resemble.
What am I?
I have four legs but never walk
I may be covered in flowers but have no soil
I hold food three times a day but never eat a meal.
What am I?
I'm by nature solitary, scarred by spear
and wounded by sword, weary of battle.
I frequently see the face of war, and fight
hateful enemies; yet I hold no hope
of help being brought to me in the battle,
before I'm eventually done to death.
In the stronghold of the city sharp-edged swords,
skilfully forged in the flame by smiths,
bite deeply into me. I can but await
a more fearsome encounter; it is not for me
to discover in the city any of those doctors
who heal grievous wounds with roots and herbs.
The scars from sword wounds gape wider and wider;
death blows are dealt to me by day and by night.
What am I?
