Answer:
Ten men's strength, ten men's length. Ten men can't break it, yet a young boy walks off with it.
This is in a realm of true and in a realm false, but you experience me as you turn and toss.
I am the hole in the night, the ever watchful eye. I return in a cycle, to enlighten the sky.
Within, I clean all that is bad and is old. I make juice thatβs the color of gold. Should I die, a filter machine would you need assembled to replace me and beans I resemble.
A thousand colored folds stretch toward the sky. Atop a tender strand, rising from the land, until killed by maiden's hand. Perhaps a token of love, perhaps to say goodbye.
Black we are and much admired. Many seek us if they are tired. We tire the horse, and comfort man, and turn White when we've fulfilled your plan.