My soul flows towards the new direction of objects.
My soul is young.
My soul sometimes coughs from joy.
My soul is idle: It counts raindrops, the holes in bricks.
My soul is sometimes true as a rock on the road.
I don't remember how old I was when I first read a poem of Sohrab. Nine maybe ten. I do remember the feeling though.
Since then at different ages, in different moods every time I read him something new happens. Like I am having a new perception of his world. In a very different depth. Like this is my first time I am reading those words; feeling those words. And each time, it amazes me. Each time I feel like... okay how much deeper I can go. And there is never an answer for it.