Answer:
It is a part of us, and then replaced. It escapes out bodies, to a better place. The world becomes its sizeable home. Its passions unrestraint, the planet it roams.
What is it that makes tears without sorrow and takes its journey to heaven?
What's black when you get it, red when you use it, and white when you're all through with it?
White bird, featherless, flying out of paradise. Flying over sea and land. Dying in my hand.
Break it and it is better, immediately set and harder to break again
The sun bakes them, The hand breaks them, The foot treads on them, And the mouth tastes them. What are they?