Answer:
I move without wings, Between silken string, I leave as you find, My substance behind.
Screaming, soaring seeking sky. Flowers of fire flying high, Eastern art from ancient time, Name me now and solve this rhyme.
Half-way up the hill, I see you at last, lying beneath me with your sounds and sights. A city in the twilight, dim and vast, with smoking roofs, soft bells, and gleaming lights.
This thing all things devours: Birds, beasts, trees, flowers; Gnaws iron, bites steel; Grinds hard stones to meal; Slays king, ruins town, And beats high mountains down.
What is lighter than what it is made of?
They are many and one, they wave and they drum, Used to cover a state, they go with you everywhere.