Torn from our native hearths we found refuge in our ancient fortresses and in stone monasteries until the hand of the miracle rescued us. Freed, we made new homes on foreign soil. Then deportation again. This time old fortresses and monasteries were levelled. Exiled, with not even the black rafter nor the dislodged pillar to rebuild, we were truly without shelter when, O miracle, we found ``quarters'' in the four lines of old songs and poems. Every time an Armenian asks ``Say a house of verse,'' the four lines of the quatrain become four walls. And the muse fills its empty treasury with new gold. We call those jeweled quatrains ``hyrens'' or Armenian, ours, so that even if we forget our letters, or how to read, the songs can sing themselves, cut themselves into stone, and become a place. Even the song ``Homeless'' becomes a home.