Riddles

I grow fruit with no soil,Shape souls with no womb,Pour rivers with no rain,Stir hearts with no word nor tune.No god am I, yet worlds I create.Who am I?

It falls behind, yet lingers still,It marches on, its measure known,It rides the air, then fades away,It lives again when brought to play.

Embers dance with tender glow,Kindled as the seasons flow,We bow us low to greet their flame,For there ascends tomorrow’s name.

Steps on a path unmade,Strength when giants have swayed,Roots that deepen in storm,Fire veiled, enduring warm.

Head held low, its might is vast,Kneels, stoops, stands steadfast;Soft of tongue, gaze to heel,Yields, endures, heart of steel;Stirs not pride when boasts fall sour,Well, aware, pillar of power.

Thirsts, grinds, swallows, fouls,Breathes, rots, blackened bowels,Marred, sickened, all decays,Fields bare, bones to clay.