April in Paris, chestnuts in bloom,
Thad’s horn singing soft through the room.
Blue notes falling like springtime rain,
Melancholy joy, sweet refrain.
Midnight on the Left Bank, lovers sway,
His trumpet weeps what words can’t say.
A touch of longing, tender and slow,
In every phrase, the heart aglow.
Paris whispers, Thad replies—
Music where the soul still flies.