Cross-stones of Armenia, sprouting from beneath the churches, with arms cut-off dark, mute grooms, that orphaned slouch underneath the sun, in solitude, in ache, in stiffness, in crystal elegy, in stoic calm, as rows of brides with slit throats and broken hymens, desperately crowd the rivers in springtime, impatient to reach the Caspian shore. Stones of Siamanto, each one marrying a bride on the page, relentlessly in wait for a first kiss or a stolen word frozen on her terrible lips.