This is Our Rock -- Ararat

High above the firm feet and mighty calves that anchor --;

High above the bearing groins and creative loins that nurture --;

And high above the uplifting chin and snow-capped peaks that thunder -- Soars Mount Ararat.

Piercing the virgin blue sky behind the diaphanous clouds of Cirrus, vested in silk-spun gossamer cover. Further down, tighter knit Cumulus clouds providing extra linen for good measure; bashfully try to hide the petrous flesh of the mountain's magnificent and titillating physique.

Rock and Sky make love in dizzying altitude of 16854 feet, well above the unimaginative sea-level mundane worlds. This is No Gibraltar, folks -- this is ARARAT -- our Faith our Blood our Rock.

Welcome to our Rock.

Firmly planted and rooted in organic lands of Armenia since the get-go periods of historicity, so needs no re-introduction to all those swines who continue to roll in the mud of revisionism.

Ararat faces Yerevan, just look and see. This is exactly why Ararat has turned its back to those who practiced genocide on its autochthonous people. Ararat says to those marauders today, while humbly borrowing a sobering line from Matthew 7:23, "I never knew you. Depart from me, you who practice evil."

Is genocide not the ultimate Evil? Of course it IS! And it's dogged Denial too.

Long live, Ararat! Armenia's unshakable rock of faith.

The Confessional Wall

The last time I saw grandpa,
he was barely standing,
leaning against my bedroom wall,
mostly lamenting -- as if demanding.

I heard him whisper some things
to the ears of that wailing wall.
And he began telling stories which cannot be told.
Words cannot be spoken in thick voice of blood;
there's no fluid grammar for that kind of clot.

As he finished spilling
his secrets one by one,
specter of red-fezed ghouls
began to rage on.
And in less than an hour,
God bless his soul -- he was gone.

Rest in peace, grandpa.

"They double killed your grandma,
right before my blind eyes,
but I saw it all, clearly I recall,
through the lens of my mind's eye,"
as he confided his grief to the wall.

As I looked at him in silence,
I noticed those eyes of his,
which have seen nothing but dungeon
since 1915,
still managed to swell
with substance of sorrow,
as his weak body trembled
for what's yet to follow.

"I watched the whole thing play out,
though my eyes were plucked,
using my ear-sight instead,
as a new source of light," 
and as the Turks slaughtered
with demonic might,
that is what remembers my mind," he stressed.

... and he broke down and cried.

"bear with me, my dear child,
I'll tell you how grandma died,
though sometimes I wonder,
if there's a thing called God.
Well, why didn't He interrupt?"
he towered his voice and yammered.

"Forgive me God, I cry your mercy ...
I still believe in YOU, You, you, y--,"
he lowered his voice and stammered.

 "I heard a crying baby
sliced out of your grandma's belly.
The newborn's womb-to-tomb journey,
thus ended in a hurry."

As he bewailed in pain,
he went on to say,

"They cut down your grandma,
and baby-uncle too;
 in one stroke of the scimitar
 the Turks butchered two."