Answer:
You can always see it, but it's too far away to touch. Mountains rest on it, and at sea it surrounds you. What is it?
What is the heart of many risks, has a heart, but is not a living being?
What is lighter than what it is made of?
Thirty white horses on a red hill, First they champ, Then they stamp, Then they stand still.
I heard of a wonder, of words moth-eaten. That is a strange thing, I thought, weird. That a man's song be swallowed by a worm. His blinded sentences, his bedside stand-by rustled in the night - and the robber-guest. Not one wit the wiser. For the words he had mumbled.
What is so fragile that saying its name breaks it?