By Thy Grace

Harimandir.

...

That I may be the bird, flying against the wind, my tussled feathers guiding me towards you, for one more glimpse.

...

That I may be the sikka, exchanged for dust-covered shoes, travelling in the pockets of pilgrims, or tied to their chunnis, and carried into your vibration.

...

That I may be the pool of water, soaking the feet that come towards you, before embarking on the journey within.

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 breeze, coming through your gates, caressing the pages of the gutka that carries your holy name.

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.

Tva Prasaad.