Answer:
It is a sound of empty, speak and it'll talk back plenty. But all the more you yack, you'll get the same words back.
This is in a realm of true and in a realm false, but you experience me as you turn and toss.
A slow, solemn square-dance of warriors feinting. One by one they fall, warriors fainting, thirty-two on sixty-four.
Slayer of regrets, old and new, sought by many, found by few.
I have one eye. See near and far. I hold the moments you treasure and the things that make you weep.
Within, I clean all that is bad and is old. I make juice thatβs the color of gold. Should I die, a filter machine would you need assembled to replace me and beans I resemble.