If there is a name for exile then be it the shards of her reminiscence laying broken among the ruins of his life, relics that if attempted no longer could be pieced into a recognizable whole, instead swept into the dustbin of the heart, washed by a momentary pause of sighs... from the poem There sings no bird by Roger Humes I went to get my mails and I found Roger's package in the box. He sent me his book, signed: Sheema, Without you this book would have never been.