Yā Rabb, You named the purpose in the simplest phrasing. Allā taṭghaw fī al-mīzān. I built the sky's balance so that you would not transgress in yours. And You used the verb of tyranny. Ṭughyān. The same word You use for Firʿawn, the same word You use for those who go beyond every limit. As if to say: I do not have a different word for the cashier who tilts a scale by a gram and the tyrant who oppresses a people. To Me, both are ṭughyān. Both are violations of the same architecture. Forgive me, ya Allāh, for every small ṭughyān my hand has performed. The expense report with a slightly inflated mile. The recommendation letter that omitted a real concern. The conversation where I narrated my version with my thumb on the scale. The receipts I asked for when I planned to claim more than I spent. The salary negotiation where I exaggerated a counter-offer. Each one was a small Firʿawn-shadow in me, by Your own naming. Strip them, ya Rabb. Train my hand to write the honest number even when no one would know. Train my tongue to narrate the just version even when the listener was already on my side. Train my chest to feel the sky and remember that its Engineer is watching mine. And ya Allāh, in the public sphere, where the powerful tilt scales against the weak (food prices on the poor, wages of the laborer, justice for the orphan), make me a voice for the mīzān. Not a passive watcher of ṭughyān in my industry, my city, my ummah. Place me on the side of those who lift the depressed pan of the scale. Āmīn ya Qawiyy ya Matīn.