Dr. Jamshid Ibrahim
Senior Member
- Joined
- Jul 19, 2005
- Member Type
- Academic
- Native Language
- English
- Home Country
- Iraq
- Current Location
- Germany
The following text is a continuation of “The Waiting for Babette” written in December 2006. https://www.usingenglish.com/forum/poetry-prose-songs/32434-waiting-babette.html
The Sunflower (The Waiting for Babette)
Something beyond definition keeps recurring. It keeps shining again although no more visible. I know it is beyond my reach now. I once read it, heard it, dreamt it and loved it bitterly, deeply and quietly and now I often say: Look, my passion has waned, my energy is drained, time helped me forget, bury it once and for all. It is dead. No need to shed tears and cry over its loss. I say: It is one of the many books once you read carelessly und hurriedly but now keeps collecting dust on your shelf. It occupies space you badly need and gives you many a headache. Even moths have found out and started laying their nests. If you can’t destroy it, put it in the back row, hidden from your eyes or sell it and if not throw it away or burn it. Look, a different life has set in. It is not fair being present here only physically.
It is mostly in the evenings when I am alone in my study lying on my back on the sofa with my eyes looking at the white ceiling. Her spirit keeps haunting me. Her face keeps appearing and disappearing. Then I hear her call me in her soft and pure voice. I rush to the window, open it wildly and beg her to come in. It is bitterly cold but I leave it open until I freeze. She disappears. I shut the window, wrap myself in a blanket and lie on my back again. My body is still trembling from cold when I see some light coming from the back row of one of my book shelves. I get up and think: Maybe I forgot to switch off the light. But its light is different. It is heavenly in its purity. It penetrates my heart and soul. It fills me with energy. I get up, go to the book shelf, and take it out. As if by a miracle dust has disappeared. I open it, kiss it and read it until I fall into a deep sleep.
When I wake up I find the book still in my hands. My energy has returned. My hands clasping her firmly in my arms as if vowing: This time I won’t let her go. This time I won’t keep quiet. This time I want to sleep in her arms. This time I want to lay my head on her lap. I will turn back the wheels. This time I'll.......Then my hands loosen the grip and touch my lips. The book falls on the floor. I get up, pick it up and put it in the back row again. I look out of the window to find the sunflower in the garden turn its head away from me. This time I open the back door to face her. The sunflower’s dew drops on my face.
Jamshid
Bremen, 24 December 2007
The Sunflower (The Waiting for Babette)
Something beyond definition keeps recurring. It keeps shining again although no more visible. I know it is beyond my reach now. I once read it, heard it, dreamt it and loved it bitterly, deeply and quietly and now I often say: Look, my passion has waned, my energy is drained, time helped me forget, bury it once and for all. It is dead. No need to shed tears and cry over its loss. I say: It is one of the many books once you read carelessly und hurriedly but now keeps collecting dust on your shelf. It occupies space you badly need and gives you many a headache. Even moths have found out and started laying their nests. If you can’t destroy it, put it in the back row, hidden from your eyes or sell it and if not throw it away or burn it. Look, a different life has set in. It is not fair being present here only physically.
It is mostly in the evenings when I am alone in my study lying on my back on the sofa with my eyes looking at the white ceiling. Her spirit keeps haunting me. Her face keeps appearing and disappearing. Then I hear her call me in her soft and pure voice. I rush to the window, open it wildly and beg her to come in. It is bitterly cold but I leave it open until I freeze. She disappears. I shut the window, wrap myself in a blanket and lie on my back again. My body is still trembling from cold when I see some light coming from the back row of one of my book shelves. I get up and think: Maybe I forgot to switch off the light. But its light is different. It is heavenly in its purity. It penetrates my heart and soul. It fills me with energy. I get up, go to the book shelf, and take it out. As if by a miracle dust has disappeared. I open it, kiss it and read it until I fall into a deep sleep.
When I wake up I find the book still in my hands. My energy has returned. My hands clasping her firmly in my arms as if vowing: This time I won’t let her go. This time I won’t keep quiet. This time I want to sleep in her arms. This time I want to lay my head on her lap. I will turn back the wheels. This time I'll.......Then my hands loosen the grip and touch my lips. The book falls on the floor. I get up, pick it up and put it in the back row again. I look out of the window to find the sunflower in the garden turn its head away from me. This time I open the back door to face her. The sunflower’s dew drops on my face.
Jamshid
Bremen, 24 December 2007
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