From ancient woods, a whisper’s keep, a golden tear, both soft and deep. Beneath my warmth, forgotten things, bound in silence, time still clings. I speak of ages, lost but near, what am I, encased in years?

I wield the sea with mighty grace, three sharp fingers, one strong face. In a god’s grip, I rule the tide, with every wave, the oceans glide. I’m not a utensil for food or feast, but in my hands, the storm’s unleashed.

I am the hymn of what once was whole, a silent scribe of a vanished soul. I wear the grey of memory’s veil, In death, I speak what life won’t tell. I mark the end, yet still a prize, what name am I, from which phoenix rise?

Poets use me in their poems, though I am not made of words or metaphors. I am a living thing, though mostly pass by unseen. I'm known to be an omen, though I helped mankind with their dead. People call me by two names, though they are not synonymous.

I am the King of Wisdom, who built God a Temple of Gold. Upon my finger sits a ring, it holds dominion over Demons and Angels both. am the fairest and wisest judge, you may know me from the tale of a certain baby.