So beautiful and cold,
So young and yet so old,
Alive but always dead,
Still hungry when has fed,
Will die if it is bled,
Or you cut off its head.
I have palms but not on hands,
I offer foods from distant lands,
When at my peak you'll see me smoke,
I'm famous for my friendly folk,
My flowers grow and yet they lay,
There's fire where a man will play.
What am I?
A shimmering field that reaches far. Yet it has no tracks, And is crossed without paths.See answer
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