What is a song?

 

What I have

But this woe in me

When called to write

It’s poetry

I never write

What I see

For what calms and moves

Is melody

But a distant star

Oh so far

Over strange lands

I travel far

And the things I capture

Are not what I see

For that is a trade

Of photography

If what I taste

Was not preserved

For decades upon decades

Upon scholarly word

I would know far less

Than what I state

For with my words

I alone can’t make

A sound to the eye

Would any try

That doesn’t move

It’s a tempest lie

A distant sound

From another’s lips

You know they like it

When they move their hips

A calm or mood

In spoken text

When it’s learned with the ears

You must confess

I would do some justice

With poetry

For what taste and touch

Can never see

In what I write

I never see

For what world exists

In melody?