Rose Garden Stranger

摄魂之美，即为至律。若美为罪，则世间无清白矣。

Sunday afternoon. The garden is a stage, and we know our lines by heart.

Yet, there is a restless current beneath the routine—a lingering silence that stretches thin. As my lady holds my hand, my gaze drifts, captivated by a stranger passing through the rows of roses. We are all lead actors in this urban script, balancing the comfort of proximity with the pull of the unknown.

Elle ne m'a pas vu, et c'est peut-être mieux ainsi.

This is a piece about the art of watching—a melancholic groove wrapped in a sophisticated city haze. It’s the sound of a late-night drive, a flickering neon reflection, and the quiet realization that some beauties are meant to be observed from a distance.

Some roses are simply better left untouched.

Sunday afternoon, my lady holds my hand
Petals on the path, everything goes as planned
The garden smells like something we rehearsed
A pretty kind of love — not the kind that hurts

Then the light shifts
Someone walks through the gate

Elle est là, comme une rose qui n'appartient à personne
I forget my name
I forget my lady beside me
Un instant, une saison
The whole summer stopped for a stranger

My lady tugs my sleeve — "Are you still here?"
I smile back, say nothing, pull her near
But my eyes already made a different vow
To someone who doesn't even know me now

Some things bloom
Without asking permission

Elle est là, comme une rose qui n'appartient à personne
I forget my name
I forget my lady beside me
Un instant, une saison
The whole summer stopped for a stranger

The stranger laughs at something I'll never know
Adjusts her hat, and lets the afternoon go

Elle ne m'a pas vu
Et c'est peut-être mieux ainsi
Some roses you just — watch

Her hand in mine, sun going down
The garden closes, we walk around
I never said a word
But something in me
est resté là-bas