Answer:
Halo of water, tongue of wood. Skin of stone, long I've stood. My fingers short reach to the sky. Inside my heart men live and die.
Held firmly in the hands, like a sword it cuts deep. Bloodless strokes, all, then forward we leap.
Soft and fragile is my skin, I get my growth in mud. Iām dangerous as much as pretty, for if not careful, I draw blood.
It is worldwide, but once only a spider could weave one
What gets wet while drying?
Brings the sky a lot closer.