I must have been bestowed with an uncountable amount of lives, for I have died and was reborn many times after reading poems that shook my core.
 
I died when Mahmoud Darwish wrote, "In every object there is a being in pain—a memory of fingers, of a smell, of an image. And houses are killed, just like their inhabitants. And the memory of objects is killed: stone, wood, glass, iron, and cement are scattered in broken fragments like living beings."
 
Then I was reborn when he said, "I play with the soapy lather and forget what is absent. I look contentedly at my mind, as clear as the kitchen glass, and at my heart, as free of stains as a carefully washed plate."
 
This happened repeatedly throughout the whole time I was reading this book.