Answer:
Each morning I appear to lie at your feet, all day I follow no matter how fast you run. Yet I nearly perish in the midday sun.
My second is performed by my first, and it is thought a thief by the marks of my whole might be caught.
What gives life and love, and is there till they die? What can hide you and find you, heal you and feed you but should never give up on you?
I am always hungry, I must always be fed. The finger I lick will soon turn red.
Even if you throw it away, it still comes back.
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.