Answer:
You get many of me, but never enough. After the last one, your life soon will snuff. You may have one of me but one day a year, When the last one is gone, your life disappears.
I grow for a surface, even if you cut me. I continue to grow even after death.
We are five little objects of an everyday sort, You will find us all in a tennis court.
A building where people and stories are on stage
What can be heard and caught but never seen?
They are many and one, they wave and they drum, Used to cover a state, they go with you everywhere.