In the heart of Paris, shadows softly fall,
Whispers of the past echo down the hall.
Beneath the cobblestones, secrets lie,
Where the silent souls of history cry.

The Seine flows quietly, beneath the moon’s soft glow,
A river of memories, of lives long ago.
On the bridges, lovers kiss and part,
Unaware of the specters that haunt the heart.

In the catacombs, the bones are laid to rest,
Each skull a story, a soul confessed.
The air is thick with tales untold,
Of French death, both young and old.

Through the streets of Paris, life moves on,
Yet the past lingers, never truly gone.
In the silent night, we hear their breath,
The quiet murmur of French death.