Not   yet   the   tide   of   war   is   spent
Red   stains   the   Tigris's   timeless   flow
Death's   haze   cloaks   my   lovely   skies
Stark   my   temples   smouldering   glow.

My   mothers   carried   in   their   wombs
Old   spirits   of   an   ancient   land
Today   my   children's   pride   is   torn
By   a   cursed   invader's   hand.

Resounding   to   a   stubborn   faith
For   years   I   watched   each   day   behold,
-Tho'   hostage   to   a   callous   world-
My   children's   spirits   strong   and   bold.

There   were   days   when   hunger   struck
And   ills   had   found   no   chance   of   cure
I   saw   my   children   ,    young   and   old
Still   keep   their   faith-   fine   and   pure.

My   name   adorned   so   many   a   verse
And   long   ,    my   gates,    the   traveller's   sought
My   glories   they   could   scarce   divine
Whose   souls   by   dimes   and   cents   are   bought.

I   thought   those   tales   of   ancient   times
The   renown   that   once   I   had   known
Would   stay   marauding   guns   and   tanks
And   let   bloom   the   seeds   that   I   had   sown.

I   thought   there   was   still   the   hope
That   Time   had   taught   most   men   to   feel
The   anguish   of   the   orphaned   child
Watching   Death   its   parents   steal.

They   seek   to   wrest   from   deep   within
The   essence   of   my   children's   life,
Their   falsehoods   born   of   grasping   greed
Condemned   me   to   this   ******   strife.

Now   will   they   strip   this   fallen   prey
Like   vultures   gathered   from   afar
None   sought   to   hear   my   anguished   cry
Or   stem   this   accursed   tide   of   war.

This   ancient   land   will   nurse   its   wounds
In   silence-   nor   lament   the   day,
But   nightly   my   desert   winds   shall   curse
Those   hands   that   dared   upon   me   lay.

Tomorrow,    Tomorrow   -I'll   be   there
When   my   tormentors   long   are   gone
So   Mother   grieve   not   for   your   child
Await   with   me   those   to   be   born.

They'll   nurture   till   the   end   of   time
The   seeds   of   anger   and   of   hate
Raise   to   the   skies   my   hoary   head
And   roar   defiance   at   my   Fate.

Such   thunder   will   the   Heaven's   rent
The   stars   avenging   orbs   of   light
As   ancient   spirits   across   the   land
Chain   foes   to   dungeons   of   the   night.

I'll   rise   again,    tall   and   strong
Eternal   as   my   desert's   sand
Nourished   by   the   coursing   blood
Of   martyrs   of   this   Arab   land.