Start sounding cold and end it with ease, The pollen I carry in spring makes some sneeze!

inhuman builders, artists with wings thousands and thousands of tiny little things i am their walls, their floors and their ceilings if you can harvest me, it's a humble way to make a living

Where land and sea share a lazy embrace, waves gently dance in a tranquil space. A boundary of blue, where horizons blend, stretching endlessly, where journeys end.

Golden soldiers in rows so neat, waving in fields under the sun's heat. In harvest time, they make a treat, from summer's warmth, we eat their sweet.

im a plant on the ground, i dont move unless the wind pushes me, i let insects rest on me, and i never make a sound.