Beneath the gaze of stars and soft lamplight,
Where Seine winds through the dreams of saints and kings,
There lies a city bathed in art and night,
Whose every stone and shadow softly sings.
The bells of Notre-Dame in twilight chime,
While lovers drift where willows kiss the stream.
Each café hums with prose and brush and rhyme—
The soul of France, alive in thought and dream.
From Louvre’s halls to Montmartre’s climbing lane,
The past and present whisper, intertwine.
In every glance, a joy tinged sweet with pain,
A fleeting spark of something near divine.
O Paris, crowned in beauty and in flame,
Your name itself forever speaks of fame.
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