There are always unmarried women, women with flesh unblemished by even the wind of a caress, with tactile sheen unmarred by so much as a smudge of fingerprint, or kiss. Their wombs are undiscovered wilderness, soundless, full of space, neither preceived nor traversed by nomad or prince. In their rooms, the desolate peace of distance and pilgrimage. No one arrives. Locked doors and curtains drawn flush protect from no armies the unravaged fields which, nonetheless, come never to harvest. No armies. Wherever there is war, the fields come never to harvest. Wherever there is war, there are, always, unmarried women.