When you stop to look, you can always see me. But if you try to touch me, you can never feel me. Although you walk towards me, I remain the same distance from you. What am I?
There were two grandmothers and their two granddaughters.
There were two husbands and their two wives.
There were two fathers and their two daughters.
There were two mothers and their two sons.
There were two maidens and their two mothers.
There were two sisters and their two brothers.
Yet there are only six, who are buried here,
All are born legitimate and relationships clear.
How can this happen?
I am the black child of a white father, a wingless bird, flying even to the clouds of heaven. I give birth to tears of mourning in pupils that meet me, even though there is no cause for grief, and at once on my birth, I am dissolved into air. What am I?
