The Writers' Circle

There was a nice man I would visit sometimes
In the hospital just down the street
He was just forty-two - ought to be in his prime
But was miserable, ailing, and weak

He spoke of his life: all the choices he'd made
That he wished that he would have made better
And one day I went - but I learned that he'd died
And he'd left me a sorrow-filled letter

"Young lady," he'd written - a tear smudged the ink -
"There's something I want you to know:
I've been ill these past years - 'twas my own fault, I think -
From my blunders I want you to grow

"Here's a piece of advice I bequeath you tonight
Whose value I learned too belated:
So long as one thinks only of the next bite
One's hunger will never be sated."

This man had heart troubles, his kidneys had failed,
And something was wrong with his liver
And as I reread his last sorrow-filled words,
I got chills and my hands were aquiver

When we eat our food -when we live our lives -
How often do we take a minute
To sit and enjoy the sheer pleasure of Now
And to rejoice and exult in it?

Instead, we gulp down all the food on our plates
Which we really ought to pause and savor
And then when we've finished, we think about how
We can't wait for our next meal later

And so, my dear friends, I share with you today
The advice that the man learned belated:
So long as one thinks only of the next bite
One's hunger will never be sated.