These poems are no architectural marvel that will have you guessing the idea behind the design. Its a simple home, built with simple thoughts and feelings. Love, flirting, heartbreak of course make up the floor, failures rise like walls, and emptiness covers over like a roof. The walls have windows of experience that bring in some happiness, some light. There is a door made up of memories, through which I can come and go as I please. And now you can too.
I can never write in the language I speak, says Sheraab, nor do I feel at home speaking the language I write. My two languages are the peripheries of the two worlds that unite in me. My identity has no roots, and so my tongue swiftly moves from one language to the other, without associating any foreignness to either. I am never an outsider, I am never a native. I will sleep in the villages, I will eat in the cities, my home is neither. My home is the verse that I have written, and the verse that I will write. Find me there.