There is a bridge in a hollow shape
And a hundred going over it
No blacksmith, nor mason,
nor carpenter built it really.

It can run but never walks, It has a mouth but never talks, It has a head but never weeps, Has a bed but never sleeps.

When you see me in the grass dressed in yellow gay; next I am in dainty white, then I fly away. What am I?

Thousand coloured folds stretch towards the sky,
Atop a tender strand,
Rising from the land,
'Til killed by maiden's hand,
Perhaps a token of love, perhaps to say goodbye.

What is this?

Tell me something, Which breaks but never falls down?