I arrive with the moon, but I bring the storm. Pain is my harbinger; gore is my form. I sometimes wear wings and sometimes a cup. In fifty or sixty years my time’s up.

Attached to a clock, it tolls for the time. Attached to a church, it rings for the dead. In a coffin, you make this ring with a strong hope someone is listening. What is this four-letter word that you hope does not toll for you?

My heavy feet lay in hills or meadow, My spiky arms circle high or low, Upon them sharp black hairs do grow, While deep in my belly a fire does glow, Where delicate treasures do I stow.

The first five letters start a name of a seven-letter leather bag and end with el. The last two letters come from where you put your fork when it has food on it, so chew with care. When combined, they form the nickname of a jazz trumpeter whose music is well known, especially when paired with Ella Fitzgerald.

In lands of old, I stand so tall, a silent sentinel of stone. A storyteller in the square, pointing ever to the sky, yet never touching it.