Answer:
Searing 'cross the pitchΒ-black skies, I scream in celebration, Yet moments later, my outburst through, I am naught but imagination.
Dies half its life. Lives the rest. Dances without music. Breathes without breath.
I wear a red robe, with staff in hand, and a stone in my throat.
Always old, sometimes new. Never sad, sometimes blue. Never empty, sometimes full. Never pushes, always pulls.
Take one out and scratch my head, I am now black but once was red.
Be sure to shout for its answers are weak, but there is no language it cannot speak.