Why is it France that sometimes beckons me

Paris whispers, I wave, and she cries,

Listening to sounds of her calling us back

Waves of leaving never needing to say goodbye

A last smile before into the oceans crept,

Like waters blanketing tears that she wept

Rushing forth but not without a trace,

With you there, I first saw your beautiful face,

Keeping in mind that when I forget

That I, long ago, Paris is where

I first fell in love with you there.

Paris still whispers, for we were there.