Helwan University

Faculty of Arts
English Department
Literature Section
Fourth Year

The Influence of Eliot’s The Love Song of

J. Alfred Prufrock on El-Sayab’s Rain Song

Presented by
Abdalla Adel

Under the supervision of

Dr. Fadwa Gad

2016
 Table of Contents

Introduction 3

Body
Di Direct Influence 4
Imitation 6

Conclusion 8

References 9

Appendix1 11

Appendix2 15

Appendix3 19

2
 Introduction

This research aims to trace some characteristics of the French

School of comparative literature by the comparison of T.S
Eliot’s (26 September 1888 – 4 January 1965) The Love Song of
J. Alfred Prufrock and Badr Shaker El-Sayab’s (December 24,
1926 – 1964) Rain Song. The pioneers of this school define
Comparative Literature as “a branch of literary study which
traces the mutual relations between two or more
internationally and linguistically different literatures or
texts.”(Theories of Comparative Literature). More specifically,
this essay will move directly to compare and contrast both
poems to trace some main elements of the French School:
Influence and Imitation.

As a result, the characteristics will show how both poems,

though their differences, share the same theme: rebellion
against old notions.

3
 Body

Direct Influence:

It is very important to trace the historical background of both

poets in the French School because it depends mainly on the
Idea of influence. Initially, Modern School of Poetry is found
in Western society in the late 19th and early 20th centuries.
This school came after many important events like the
Industrial Revolution, Darwnism and War World I. In other
words, this movement came to rebel against the old notions
that caused a lot of destruction and to reveal the desperate
new notions. The founders of Modernism are Ezra Pound, T.E
Hulme and, the most worthy to mention, T.S Eliot.

On the other hand, Eastern Societies, specifically the Middle

East, was not familiar yet with Modernism until a poet as El-
Sayab came to use it and become one of the pioneers in the
Arabic poetry of this school.
El-Sayab has studied both Arabic literature and English
literature. He was known of his severe rejection to the English
colonies against his country, Iraq; In other words, from the
dates, it is very obvious that El-Sayab has come just after Eliot
to look at the school Modern Poetry. Regarding the events, it
pushed him to seek the language of his enemy which led him
also to find a new culture that he may use; especially after
many hard circumstances and destructions which happened to
his country by the English colonies.

4
It is not a possibility to say that El-Sayab had an influence just
because of his studying but there is a definite clue that he was
influenced directly by Eliot’s works, specifically The Love Song
of J. Alfred Prufrock; it is mentioned in the article of A Study on
the Influence of Eliot on El-Sayab (Translated by me) by
Abdulmonem El-Feya; In other words, it is very obvious in El-
Sayab’s imitation to Eliot’s poem.

5
Imitation:

The Titles itself at the beginning of both poems are very tricky.
The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by Eliot and Rain Song by El-
Sayab indicate, apparently, that both poem have positive
connotations.

Regarding Eliot’s, we may think as a first impression that this

poem would talk about love as an aspect of Romanticism, a tale
between two lovers, or a reflection of inner feelings to
someone. However, as we move on to read, we will find that
Eliot is discussing the life of high-class educated people. The
speaker is an educated person who cares very much for his
appearance with a description for an incomplete and gloomy
setting; In other words, it is very ironic but it is the reflection of
the English society at Eliot’s time. Even Educated people who
seek to meet women, who are educated also, are very
superficial and materialistic. This all happened by the use of
Dramatic Monologue: “a poetic form in which a single
character, addressing a silent auditor at a critical moment,
reveals himself or herself and the dramatic
situation.”(dictionary.com).

Parallel to this, El-Sayab’s title may refer apparently to Nature

and its beauty which is an important aspect of Romanticism;
rain means water and water life. Nevertheless, the speaker just
describes the beauty of his beloved which is his country, Iraq,
which is full of life. Later on, this tone disappears suddenly after
the sixth line immediately. It goes to reflect drought, hunger

6
and death. Everybody prays for rain, and when it comes, floods
come with destructions. However, they keep praying for rain.
The previous statement is also formalized by addressing a silent
character a dramatic situation; In other words, the speaker also
uses the dramatic monologue.

As a result, both poets have used the same techniques to

embody the theme of rebellion against old notions by mocking
Romanticism by the use of tricky titles.

7
Conclusion:
Eliot’s The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock has an influence on
El-Sayab’s Rain Song by achieving two main elements of the
French School of Comparative Literature: Direct Influence and
Imitation. As a result, both poems, although they have different
cultural connotation, they shared the same theme of rebellion
against old notions.

8
 Refrences

Theorists of Modernist Poetry - T.S. Eliot, T.E. Hulme and Ezra Pound
(Routledge Critical Thinkers) - Rebecca Beasley.pdf

Theories of Comparative Literature by M. M. Enani

http://www.dictionary.com/browse/dramatic-monologue

http://julianpeterscomics.com/page-1-the-love-song-of-j-alfred-
prufrock-by-t-s-eliot/

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/detail/44212

http://www.bartleby.com/198/1.html

http://www.alyaum.com/article/1108752

http://sudaneseonline.com/board/19/msg/%D9%85%D8%A3%D8%B3%
D8%A7%D8%A9-%D8%AA%D9%85%D9%88%D8%B2-%D8%A7%D9%88-
%D9%81%D9%8A-%D8%A7%D9%84%D8%AA%D9%86%D8%A7%D8%B5-
%D8%A8%D9%8A%D9%86-%D8%A7%D9%84%D9%8A%D9%88%D8%AA-
%D9%88%D8%A8%D8%AF%D8%B1-%D8%B4%D8%A7%D9%83%D8%B1-
%D8%A7%D9%84%D8%B3%D9%8A%D8%A7%D8%A8--1201285828.html

9
http://www.almaktabah.net/vb/showthread.php?t=4399

https://ar.wikipedia.org/wiki/%D8%A8%D8%AF%D8%B1_%D8%B4%D8%
A7%D9%83%D8%B1_%D8%A7%D9%84%D8%B3%D9%8A%D8%A7%D8%
A8

10
 Appendix1

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

Related Poem Content Details
BY T. S. ELIOT

S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse

A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma percioche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.
Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question ...
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go

Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time

For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time

11
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go

Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time

To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair —
(They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”)
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin —
(They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”)
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:

Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—

The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—

Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.

12
 And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets

And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? ...

I should have been a pair of ragged claws

Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!

Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep ... tired ... or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet — and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,

After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it towards some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
If one, settling a pillow by her head
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all;
That is not it, at all.”

And would it have been worth it, after all,

Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:

13
 “That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;

Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old ... I grow old ...

I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?

I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves

Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

14
 ‫‪Appendix2‬‬

‫أنشــودة المطــر‬

‫للشاعر بدر السياب‬

‫عيناك غابتا نخي ٍل ساعةَ السحر‬ ‫ِ‬

‫شرفتان را َح ينأى عن ُهما القمر‬
‫ِ‬ ‫أو‬
‫تبسمان تُور ُ‬
‫ق الكروم‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫عيناك حين‬ ‫ِ‬
‫كاألقمار في نهر‬
‫ِ‬ ‫وترقص األضوا ُء ‪..‬‬ ‫ُ‬
‫َ‬
‫المجداف َوهنا ً ساعة السحر‬
‫ُ‬ ‫‪...‬ير ُّجهُ‬
‫غوريهما النجوم‬
‫ِ‬ ‫تنبض في‬
‫ُ‬ ‫كأنّما‬

‫أسى شَـفيف‬‫ً‬ ‫ب ِمن‬ ‫وتغرقان في ضبا ٍ‬‫ِ‬

‫َ‬
‫اليدين فوقهُ المساء‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ح‬‫َ‬ ‫سر‬
‫َّ‬ ‫كالبحر‬
‫ِ‬
‫ُ‬
‫تاء فيه وارتِعاشة الخريف‬ ‫دِف ُء الشـ ّ ِ‬
‫والموتُ والميال ُد والظال ُم والضياء‬
‫ق ِمل َء روحي رعشةُ البُكاء‬ ‫فتستفي ُ‬
‫سماء‬ ‫ق ال ّ‬ ‫ٌ‬
‫ونشوةٌ وحشية تعان ُ‬
‫خاف ِمن القمر‬ ‫َ‬ ‫كنشو ِة الطف ِل إذا‬

‫تشرب الغيوم‬
‫ُ‬ ‫ب‬
‫أقواس السحا ِ‬
‫َ‬ ‫‪...‬كأنَّ‬
‫تذوب في المطر‬
‫ُ‬ ‫‪...‬وقطرةً فقطرةً‬
‫َركر األطفا ُل في عرائش الكُروم‬‫وك َ‬
‫العصافير على الشجر‬
‫ِ‬ ‫ودغدغت صمتُ‬
‫أنشودةُ المطر‬
‫‪..‬مطر‬
‫‪..‬مطر‬
‫‪..‬مطر‬

‫تثاءب المسا ُء والغيو ُم ما تزال‬ ‫َ‬

‫تس ُّح ما تس ُّح ِمن دمو ِعها الثِقال‬
‫كأنّ ِطفالً باتَ يهذي قب َل أن ينام‬
‫ق منذ عام‬ ‫)بأنّ أُمـّه (التي أفا َ‬
‫‪..‬فلم يجدها‬
‫ثم حين ل َّج في السؤال‬
‫" قالوا له‪ " :‬بعد غ ٍد تعود‬
‫الب ّد أن تعود‬
‫ق أنها هناك‬‫ّ‬ ‫تهامس الرفا ُ‬
‫َ‬ ‫وإن‬
‫َ‬
‫ب الت ِل تنا ُم نومة اللحود‬ ‫في جان ِ‬
‫وتشرب المطر‬
‫ُ‬ ‫ُ‬
‫تسف ِمن ترابِها‪..‬‬ ‫ُّ‬

‫كأنّ صيّادا ً حزينا ً يجم ُع الشباك‬

‫ويلعنُ الميا َه والقدر‬

‫‪15‬‬
 ‫وينثر الغنا َء حيث يأف ُل القمر‬
‫ُ‬
‫‪..‬مطر‬
‫‪..‬مطر‬
‫ُ‬
‫يبعث المطر ؟‬ ‫حزن‬
‫ٍ‬ ‫أتعلمينَ َّ‬
‫أي‬
‫المزاريب إذا انهمر ؟‬
‫ُ‬ ‫وكيف تنش ُج‬
‫يشعر الوحي ُد فيه بالضياع ؟‬
‫ُ‬ ‫وكيف‬
‫راق‪ ..‬كالجياع‬
‫كالدم ال ُم ِ‬
‫ِ‬ ‫بال انتهاءٍ ‪..‬‬
‫كالحب‪ ..‬كاألطفا ِل‪ ..‬كالموتى‬‫ّ‬
‫هو المطر‬

‫ومقلتاك بي تطيفان مع المطر‬

‫ِ‬
‫الخليج تمس ُح البروق‬
‫ِ‬ ‫أمواج‬
‫ِ‬ ‫وعبر‬
‫َ‬
‫بالنجوم و المحار‬
‫ِ‬ ‫العراق‪..‬‬
‫ِ‬ ‫سواح َل‬
‫كأنها ته ُّم بالبروق‬
‫دم دثار‬
‫فيسحب اللي ُل عليها من ٍ‬
‫ُ‬

‫" أصي ُح بالخليج‪ " :‬يا خليج‬

‫المحار و الردى"‬
‫ِ‬ ‫واهب اللؤلؤ و‬
‫َ‬ ‫" يا‬
‫فيرج ُع الصدى‬
‫‪:‬كأنـّهُ النشيج‬
‫واهب المحـ ّ ِار والردى"‬
‫َ‬ ‫" يا خليج‪ ..‬يا‬

‫الرعود‬‫يذخر ُ‬
‫ُ‬ ‫ق‬
‫أكا ُد أسم ُع العرا َ‬
‫ق في السهو ِل والجبال‬ ‫ويخزنُ البرو َ‬
‫فض عنها خت َمها الرجال‬‫حتى إذا ما ّ‬
‫ح ِمن ثمود‬ ‫لم تترك الريا ُ‬
‫في الوا ِد ِمن أثر‬

‫يشرب المطر‬
‫ُ‬ ‫أكا ُد أسم ُع النخي َل‬
‫والمهاجرين‬
‫ِ‬ ‫وأسم ُع القُرى تئنُّ ‪..‬‬
‫بالمجاذيف وبالقلوع‬
‫ِ‬ ‫يُصارعونَ‬
‫الخليج والرعودِ‪ُ ..‬منشدين‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫عواصف‬
‫َ‬
‫‪..‬مطر‬
‫‪..‬مطر‬
‫‪..‬مطر‬
‫ع‬
‫العراق جو ٌ‬
‫ِ‬ ‫وفي‬
‫وينثر الغال َل فيه موس ُم الحصاد‬ ‫ُ‬
‫لتشب َع الغربانُ والجراد‬
‫وتطحنُ الشوان والحجر‬
‫تدور في الحقو ِل‪ ...‬حولها بشر‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫رحى‬
‫ً‬
‫‪..‬مطر‬
‫‪..‬مطر‬

‫‪16‬‬
 ‫‪..‬مطر‬

‫وكم ذرفنا ليلةَ الرحيل ِمن دُموع‬

‫خوف أن نُال َم ‪ -‬بالمطر‬
‫َ‬ ‫ثم اعتـَللنا ‪-‬‬
‫‪..‬مطر‬
‫‪..‬مطر‬
‫ومنذُ أن كنّا صغاراً‪ ..‬كانت السماء‬
‫تغي ُم في الشتاء‬
‫ويهط ُل المطر‬
‫عشب الثرى) نجوع‬ ‫عام (حين يُ ُ‬ ‫وك ّل ٍ‬
‫يس فيه ُجوع‬ ‫قل َ‬ ‫مر عا ٌم والعرا ُ‬
‫ما َّ‬
‫‪..‬مطر‬
‫‪..‬مطر‬
‫‪..‬مطر‬

‫في ك ّل قطر ٍة ِمن المطر‬

‫ّ‬
‫حمرا َء أو صفرا َء ِمن أجن ِة الزهر‬
‫الجياع والعُراة‬
‫ِ‬ ‫وك ّل دمع ٍة ِمن‬
‫دم العبيد‬ ‫وك ّل قطر ٍة ت ُ ُ ِ ِ‬
‫ن‬ ‫م‬ ‫ق‬ ‫را‬
‫بسم جديد‬
‫انتظار َم ٍ‬
‫ِ‬ ‫فهي ابتسا ٌم في‬
‫فم الوليد‬‫توردت على ِ‬ ‫أو حلمةٌ ّ‬
‫ب الحياة‬ ‫الفتي واه ِ‬
‫ّ‬ ‫عالم الغ ِد‬
‫في ِ‬
‫‪..‬مطر‬
‫‪..‬مطر‬
‫‪..‬مطر‬
‫ق بالمطر‬ ‫سيعشب العرا ُ‬
‫ُ‬

‫" أصي ُح بالخليج‪ " :‬يا خليج‬

‫الردى"‬
‫المحار و َ‬
‫ِ‬ ‫واهب اللؤلؤ و‬
‫َ‬ ‫" يا‬
‫فيرج ُع الصدى‬
‫‪:‬كأنـّهُ النشيج‬
‫والردى"‬
‫واهب المحـ ّ ِار َ‬
‫َ‬ ‫" يا خليج‪ ..‬يا‬

‫وينثر الخلي ُج من ِهباته ال ِكثار‬

‫ُ‬
‫على الرما ِل رغو ُه األجاج‪ ..‬والمحار‬
‫بائس غريق‬ ‫ٍ‬ ‫وما تبقّى ِمن ِعظام‬
‫يشرب الردى‬
‫ُ‬ ‫المهاجرين ظ ّل‬
‫ِ‬ ‫ِمن‬
‫الخليج و القَرار‬
‫ِ‬ ‫ِمن ل ُجة‬
‫تشرب الرحيق‬
‫ُ‬ ‫ألف أفعى‬ ‫العراق ُ‬
‫ِ‬ ‫وفي‬
‫ِمن زهر ٍة يربها الرفاتُ بالنـّدى‬
‫و أسم ُع الصدى‬

‫‪17‬‬
 ‫‪:‬يرنّ في الخليج‬
‫‪..‬مطر‬
‫‪..‬مطر‬
‫‪..‬مطر‬

‫في ك ّل قطر ٍة ِمن المطر‬

‫حمرا َء أو صفرا َء ِمن أجنّ ِة الزهر‬
‫الجياع والعُراة‬
‫ِ‬ ‫وك ّل دمع ٍة ِمن‬
‫دم العبيد‬
‫ق ِمن ِ‬ ‫وك ّل قطر ٍة تُرا ُ‬
‫بسم جديد‬
‫انتظار َم ٍ‬
‫ِ‬ ‫فهي ابتسا ٌم في‬
‫فم الوليد‬
‫توردت على ِ‬ ‫أو حلمةٌ ّ‬
‫ب الحياة‬‫الفتي واه ِ‬
‫ّ‬ ‫عالم الغ ِد‬
‫في ِ‬
‫ويهط ُل المط ُر‬

‫‪18‬‬
 Appendix3

Rain Song.
By: Shakr El-Sayab

Your eyes are two palm tree forests in early

light,
Or two balconies from which the moonlight
recedes
When they smile, your eyes, the vines put
forth their eaves,
And lights dance .. like moons in a river
Rippled by the blade of an oar at break of
day;
As if stars were throbbing in the depths of
them . . .
And they drown in a mist of sorrow
translucent
Like the sea stroked by the hand of nightfall;
The warmth of winter is in it, and the
shudder of autumn,
And death and birth, darkness and light;
A sobbing flares up to tremble in my soul
And a savage elation embracing the sky,
Frenzy of a child frightened by the moon.
It is as if archways of mist drank the clouds
And drop by drop dissolved in the rain …
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As if children snickered in the vineyard
bowers,
The song of the rain rippled the silence of
birds in the trees
Rain song
Drop,
Drop,
Drop,
Evening yawned, from low clouds
Heavy tears are streaming still.
It is as if a child before sleep were rambling
on
About his mother (a year ago he went to wake
her, did not find her; Then when he kept on
asking, he was told:
"After tomorrow, she'll come back again"
That she must come back again,
Yet his playmates whisper that she is there
In the hillside, sleeping her death for ever,
Eating the earth around her, drinking the
rain;
As if a forlorn fisherman gathering nets
Cursed the waters and fate
And scattered a song at moonset,
Drip, drop, the rain
Drip, drop, the rain

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Do you know what sorrow the rain can inspire?
And how gutters weep when it pours down?
Do you know how lost a solitary person feels in
the rain?
Endless,- like spilt blood, like hungry people,
like love, like children, like the dead,-
Endless the rain.
Your two eyes take me wandering with the
rain,
Lightning's from across the Gulf sweep
The shores of Iraq
With stars and shells,
As if a dawn were about to break from them
But night pulls over them a coverlet of blood.

I cry out to the Gulf: "O Gulf,

Giver of pearls, shells and death!"
And the echo replies, as if lamenting:
"O Gulf: Giver of shells and death".

I can almost hear Iraq husbanding the

thunder,
Storing lightning in the mountains and plains,
So that if the seal were broken by men
The winds would leave in the valley not a
trace of Thamud.

I can almost hear the palmtrees drinking the

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rain,
Hear the villages moaning and emigrants
With oar and sail fighting
The Gulf winds of storm and thunder, singing
Rain.. rain..rain (Drip, drop, the rain)
And there is hunger in Iraq,
The harvest time scatters the grain in-it,
That crows and locusts may gobble their fill,
Granaries and stones grind on and on,
Mills turn in the fields, with humans turning
Drip, drop, the rain
Drip, Drop, Drop

How many tears we shed when came the night

for leaving
We made the rain an excuse, not wishing to
be blamed
Drip, drop, the rain
Drip, drop, the rain
Since we had been children, the sky
Would be clouded in wintertime,
And down would pour the rain,
And every year when earth turned green the
hunger struck us.
Not a year has passed without hunger in Iraq.
Rain
Drip, drop, the rain

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Drip, drop

In every drop of rain

A red or yellow color buds from the seeds of
flowers.
Every tear wept by the hungry and naked
people
And every spilt drop of slaves' blood
Is a smile aimed at a new dawn,
A nipple turning rosy in an infant's lips
In the young world of tomorrow, bringer of
life.
Drip.....
Drop.....
(the rain . . .In the rain)
Iraq will blossom one day
I cry out to the Gulf: "O Gulf:
Giver of pearls, shells and death!"
The echo replies as if lamenting:
'O Gulf: Giver of shells and death."

And across the sands from among its lavish

gifts
The Gulf scatters fuming froth and shells
And the skeletons of miserable drowned
emigrants
Who drank death forever
From the depths of the Gulf, from the ground
23
of its silence,
And in Iraq a thousand serpents drink the
nectar
From a flower the Euphrates has nourished
with dew.

I hear the echo

Ringing in the Gulf:
Rain . . .
Drip, drop, the rain . . .
Drip, drop.
In every drop of rain
A red or yellow color buds from the seeds of
flowers.
Every tear wept by the hungry and naked
people
And every spilt drop of slaves' blood
Is a smile aimed at a new dawn,
A nipple turning rosy in an infant's lips
In the young world of tomorrow, bringer of
life.
And still the rain pours down.
_

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