Answer:
It floats over the land, It cuts the tallest mountain, Its voice is like a fountain, Its body like a snake, Will flow into a lake.
What is put on a table, cut, but never eaten?
Through its wounds, water does run. It once held many but now has none. What is it?
Put into a pit, locked beneath a grate, guarded through the night, yet it still goes out.
I heard of a wonder, of words moth-eaten. That is a strange thing, I thought, weird. That a man's song be swallowed by a worm. His blinded sentences, his bedside stand-by rustled in the night - and the robber-guest. Not one wit the wiser. For the words he had mumbled.
If itβs information you seek, come and see me. If itβs pairs of letters you need, I have consecutively three. What am I?