That I may be the marble, melted by the tears of those who seek you, as their heads bow in reverence, placing their fears at your door.
That I may be the bucket, lowered into the sarovar, bringing forth the nectar that cleanses your marble floors, and drenches your children with joy.
That I may be the milk, poured from above, cascading down each step, purifying the spirits of your servants.
That I may be the jute mat, worn by the feet that graze my weaves, as they walk around you, around you, around you, towards you.
That I may be the fish, in your sarovar, living within the infinity of your four corners, my body soaked in your nectar.
That I may be the blossom, cut from my stalk, separated from my root, threaded through my petals, drying at your feet.
That I may be the ray of light, shining on your golden surface, causing your reflection to dance on the surface of the water.
That I may be the grain of sugar, liquefied over the flame, molded into a blessing, that your devotees might carry home a sweet reminder of their darshan.
That I may stand in your shadow, once more. Bathe in your light, once more. My palms together, once more. My forehead on your marble, once more.
That I may come home, Guru Ram Das. To your City of Nectar, once more.