There’s joy in each new day
That greets us new and laughs with
Bright abandoned gaiety and shouts loud
Of all those new things that it’s brought us.
Just for us these gifts.
But then we turn away
And cry into our pillows.
That we should be so honoured
By warm sun or roiling raincloud
And should still turn and say
That this is not enough for us.
As warm light spills across our poor dreams,
We still can’t see how lucky we are
To taste things so rich
Beyond our wildest dreams,
Those we imagine to be our fantasy.