Answer:
White bird, featherless, flying out of paradise. Flying over sea and land. Dying in my hand.
You eat something you neither plant nor plow. It is the son of water, but if water touches it, it dies.
I can move even when you are still. I can be one or many.
Until I am measured I am not known, Yet how you miss me when I have flown.
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.
What never gets any wetter no matter how hard it rains?