Answer:
Dies half its life. Lives the rest. Dances without music. Breathes without breath.
It is worldwide, but once only a spider could weave one
A thousand colored folds stretch toward the sky. Atop a tender strand, rising from the land, until killed by maiden's hand. Perhaps a token of love, perhaps to say goodbye.
When it is alive we sing, when it is dead we clap our hands. What is it?
Whoever makes it, tells it not. Whoever takes it, knows it not. And whoever knows it wants it not
I am your mother's brother's only brother in law. Who am I?