This thing all things devours:
Birds, beasts, trees, flowers;
Gnaws iron, bites steel;
Grinds hard stones to meal;
Slays king, ruins town,
And beats high mountain down
What has roots as nobody sees,
Is taller than trees
Up, up it goes,
And yet never grows?
Alive without breath,
As cold as death;
Never thirsty, ever drinking,
All in mail never clinking
It cannot be seen, cannot be felt,
Cannot be heard, cannot be smelt.
It lies behind stars and under hills,
And empty holes it fills.
It comes first and follows after,
Ends life, kills laughter.
A box without hinges, key or lid,
Yet golden treasure inside is hid.
What is in my pocket?