Answer:
Three little letters. A paradox to some. The worse that it is, the better it becomes.
What liquid can contain the soul?
I heard of a wonder, of words moth-eaten. That is a strange thing, I thought, weird. That a man's song be swallowed by a worm. His blinded sentences, his bedside stand-by rustled in the night - and the robber-guest. Not one wit the wiser. For the words he had mumbled.
It is able to speak because it has a hard gone. You know what it is as soon as it has sung. What is it?
In the night a mountain, in the morning a meadow.
What covers its face with its hands, speaks no language, yet most known what it's saying?