Boundaries Riddle Review

I am older than you are. I was set before towns or farms arrived; people moved in and found me already in place. What boundary am I?

I was drawn by strangers. I slice through languages and families because an outside power put me here. What boundary am I?

I’m an invisible scar. I no longer govern where you go, but streets, fences, and neighborhoods still trace my ghost. What boundary am I?

I speak the language of difference. I tend to fall where cultures, faiths, or ethnic groups change. What boundary am I?

I’m as straight as a ruler. Latitude, longitude, or a simple line—no mountain or river tells me where to turn. What boundary am I?

I haunt the map like a memory. The law forgot me, but landscapes remember—old guard posts, walls, or rail lines linger. What boundary am I?

I’m a perfect polygon’s pal. Squares, rectangles, or tidy angles—surveyors love me. What boundary am I?

I ignore the village drum. I split communities because someone far away drew me quickly—sometimes at a desk. What boundary am I?

I’m a tug-of-war zone. Powerful neighbors pull me from both sides; conflict loves my crossroads. Who am I?

I follow the songs and stories. Where languages switch or traditions change, I often form. What boundary am I?