Is it a garden,
whose rows and rows of roses
nobody may kiss?
The phrase “rows and rows of roses” dropped into my head some time ago; I like the alliteration. And two things came to mind: first of all, Danielle, who also likes alliteration. I remember her saying so, and although I can’t remember any specific headlines right now, do recall her appreciating “a little alliteration” every now and then in my copy.
Then I thought of Lalbagh, Bangalore's Kew, whose buildings and walls are all of red hue (lal = red, bagh = garden), and of its rose garden, where indeed one can see rows and rows of roses of so many colours. They can be quite beautiful to pass by, but a high fence separates us because visitors would otherwise feel entitled to pluck them (we're not very good with boundaries in this country). I sometimes walk along the fence, hoping to get a whiff of the rich sweet fragrance of these roses, but I never do. No scent to inhale, and no permission to touch velvet and silk petals: it might just as well be a picture.