Born in the east where scholars made their mark, A silent skin for thought, from light to dark. I carry vows and wars, both truth and caper, Fold me, burn me, sign me, what am I?

Someone left this mallet, Oh, no... That letter was upside down. Best if we return it.

I never speak, yet set the mood, I dress a room in attitude. Not walls or floors, but still I’m seen - What am I that makes spaces feel mean in a good way?

If you want my return then toss me aside but with greater care I'll bag you a hare.

I have a silver tongue but never speak, I graze the mountain and the valley’s cheek. I drink from a river of white, snowy foam, To leave a smooth path wherever I roam.