By the river’s slow sigh,
Leaves fall, autumn’s breath.
A shadow climbs the sky,
Iron threads of death.
Coffee’s ghost lingers near,
Bitter scent, faint and thin.
The city wakes in fear,
A tomb sealed within.
Canvas waits, pale and bare,
Easel whispers low.
What ghosts linger there?
None but the wind can know.
A murmur, soft, unnamed,
“Ah, Paris,” love’s refrain.
Through café lights, unclaimed,
Echoes of silent pain.
A figure by the shore,
Eyes like crimson rain.
“M’sieur,” she speaks once more,
A voice that bears no name.
The wind calls, cold and thin,
A phantom’s mournful cry.
From shadows, rising in,
A shape against the sky.
No trace, no mark, no sign,
But whispers in the air.
The city’s heart aligns—
The phantom lingers there.
