I grow heavier with every drink. Yet lighter with one squeeze.

A small, young, or lesser version of a tab?

Beneath ten patient fingertips, my silent voice takes flight.

When little pieces are falling from the sky, It can be gathered and is kind of dry. Push it together, make it round, make it tight, You are born when three spheres unite, A touch of wood with a rocky sight, No one had this ever fried.

I have no voice, but I speak of old, Carved in stone or cast in mold. I can hold a web page, a pill, or a law, What am I?