In the quiet streets of old Paris night,
Shadows dance in the dimming light,
Echoes of lives once lived with grace,
Now whispers in the moonlit space.

Beneath the arches of ancient stone,
Lies a story, silent, unknown,
French death, serene and ever still,
A whispering breeze upon the hill.

The Seine flows with a gentle sigh,
Reflecting the stars in the velvet sky,
As memories of love and loss entwine,
In the heart of France, so divine.

In the mist of dawn’s early breath,
There lies the mystique of French death,
A tranquil end, a peaceful sleep,
In the land where dreams and shadows meet.