Whispers of Paris
The Eiffel stirs, a flicker bright,
A spark to meet the coming night.
Through Montmartre’s lanes, where artists roam,
The cobblestones call hearts back home—
A swirl of paint, a burst of sound,
Where dreams and shadows both are found.
The breeze that lifts from Rue Saint-Honoré
Speaks of silks, of fashion’s sway—
Of velvet gowns and tailored suits,
Of Paris whispers, muted flutes.
The Palais Garnier, grand and bold,
Echoes of music, stories told—
Where every note and every step
Weaves into the city’s breath.
The Marais hums a scented tune,
With wine and roses, soft as moon—
Where laughter spills, where spirits meet,
And strangers’ hearts in silence greet.
Beneath Notre Dame’s sacred glass,
The city sighs, a timeless mass.
Her beauty speaks without a sound,
A quiet grace that wraps the ground.
Lovers lean by bridges low,
As moonlight casts its silver glow.
In every glance, in every kiss,
Paris wraps you in its bliss.
So come, let go of maps and care,
For in her streets, there’s magic rare.
She’s not a place, but soul and art—
Paris is a beating heart.
— Meenakshi Singh
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