Answer:
What is the freedom of birds and the pen of old men?
My first is an insect; my second is a border; my whole puts the face in a tuneful disorder.
I am round as a bowl, deep as a tub, but all the world's water couldn't fill me up.
It is a part of us, and then replaced. It escapes out bodies, to a better place. The world becomes its sizeable home. Its passions unrestraint, the planet it roams.
You get many of me, but never enough. After the last one, your life soon will snuff. You may have one of me but one day a year, When the last one is gone, your life disappears.
I always murmur but never talk. Always run but never walk. I have a bed but never sleep, have a mouth but never speak. What am I?