I dedicate these poems to all the people who were prematurely cut from their times and places. To each human soul that wilted and lost its fragrance in exile.

I apologize in advance for not saying ‘here’s to a good luck,’ because I do not believe in luck. And if good luck does exist, I don’t need it anymore.

What does it mean when language becomes the only 'home' to inhabit when all else is lost for displaced and exiled writers (and people)?

Who am I then? Am I everybody and nobody? Am I everywhere and nowhere? Is a state of multiple existence the only thing that captures my reality and the reality of countless other exiled and displaced peoples around the world today? Is a multiple existence a good thing or is it akin to nonexistence? Am I like God who is everywhere for those who believe in him and nowhere for those who do not?