A city filled with echoes—

Of lovers, poets, and painters,

Who once traced it’s bones with their hands.

Here, love is found between the lines,

Tucked inside the pages of forgotten novels,

Waiting to be read, waiting to be lived.

The Seine hums in ripples,

Carrying whispers and longing sighs—in Paris, even silence speaks in poetry.

April leans against café doors,

Spilling golden light onto cobbled streets brushed in perfect strokes

By a painter perched in the window’s glow.

An artist who dreams in color

and paints their longing

Along the winding stones of Rue de l’Abreuvoir.

“America is my country, and Paris is my hometown,”

Gertrude Stein once said.

And so, the brush never lifts, the pen never stops—

Paris is always being written.