In the silent heart of Paris, lies a realm,
Where death's cold fingers sculpt a quiet helm.
In the catacombs, amongst shadows cast,
Lies a still tableau of a spectral past.
A skull and bones in silence lay,
A mute testament to life's fleeting day.
Cold, they rest in the dark's embrace,
"Eternal Whisper," the echo of a face.
A silent narrative in bone and stone,
A quiet reminder we walk alone.