Answer:
I can be written, I can be spoken, I can be exposed, I can be broken.
A slow, solemn square-dance of warriors feinting. One by one they fall, warriors fainting, thirty-two on sixty-four.
The land was white the seed was black it'll take a good scholar to riddle me that. What is it?
It can pierce the best armor and make swords crumble with a rub, yet for all its power It can't harm a wooden club.
My teeth are sharp, my back is straight, to cut things up it is my fate.
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