The Squeeze





The Squeeze

A man once said with worldly flair,
“Life is fleeting—strip it bare.
We sip, we dance, we chase, we yearn—
The lemon dries before we learn.”

He bit into life with greedy zest,
No prayer, no pause, no inward quest.
“What lies beyond? Who’s ever known?
Better to feast while flesh and bone.”

The juice ran wild down mortal chin—
Sweet with thrill, edged with sin.
But nights grew long, the pulp grew dry,
And silence echoed in the sky.

A monk, serene, with gaze like flame,
Heard this thirst and placed no blame.
He said, “Yes, squeeze—squeeze if you must,
But with a gaze both kind and just.”

“Each soul you meet upon this stage—
The young, the old, the wise, the rage—
Treat them not as fleeting cast,
But God in form, from first to last.”

“Not idols carved in distant halls,
But breathing light in duty’s calls.
To bow before the mundane face
Is to make your squeeze an act of grace.”

“The skin of ego, peel it well,
The seeds of pride—let them go.
Each squeeze becomes a sacred rite
When done in love, and inward sight.”

“For when this play must end at last,
And breath dissolves in silence vast—
The juice you drank will still abide,
If you saw the Lord in those by your side.”

So squeeze the lemon, drink it deep—
But sow the joy you wish to reap.
For the fullest life is not just lived—
It’s offered whole, and wholly giv’n.

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