Find me at your core, Or through which an African or Indian beast would snore, Or in which your clothing to store, Or from which a mighty oak's branches can soar. If you add eight to me I sound awfully short. What am I ?

Where corvids come to to drink al'caw'hol.

I wear many coats though I’m not for the cold, I make strong folks cry, though I’m timid and old. Chop me to bits, I’ll still flavour your bowl

I sound like I smell worse, than that rose or daisy word. Don't fall into my trap, It's literally for the birds

I start as a whisper on a sleeping tree, I drink the sun and breathe the breeze. I fall without a sound each year, Yet I feed the world when I am here.