Answer:
Thirty white horses on a red hill, first they champ, then they stamp, then they stand still.
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.
What covers its face with its hands, speaks no language, yet most known what it's saying?
I am always hungry, I must always be fed. The finger I lick will soon turn red.
Do you know what you can hold without ever touching it?
Almost everyone needs it, asks for it, gives it. But almost nobody takes it.