Return me, Lord, to the Seat of Your Throne,
Where nothing is mine, and all is Your own.
The currents may shake, the storms may bend —
But You write the start, and You seal the end.
No page turns by chance, no ink spills in vain,
Even sorrow is sacred, even pleasure is pain.
I searched for control, I wrestled the pen —
But now I just bow… again and again.
Your Ink — it flows in colours unknown,
Shades not dreamed, nor seeds I’ve sown.
Yet even the dark is drenched in design,
Hukam is the Hand that writes through time.
So I fold these hands — not to ask, but to be,
Not to fight the tide, but to merge with the Sea.
No name, no claim, no self remains —
Just the echo:
“Hukam — forever reigns.”
