The plant in my bedroom window is dying. My father, ever enthusiastic, bought it as a young creeper, leafy tendrils venturing over the rim of the pot. I merely saw an overgrown shrub that would repel the morning sunlight from my window and become a free haven for mosquitoes. But I did not deter him. And now it stands, in an obscenely red clay pot, obstinately dying in full view of all and sundry. The sun coaxes it from above the college wall next door almost every day. The wind is kind and the rain obliges with free showers. At least three times a day it is watered, tap water, drinking water, muddy water, leftover water, even some Aquafina I found lying around. But it's a stubborn plant, unnamed creeper, would-be adorner of a would-be poet's window. Die it will, and what a grand spectacle that shall be. Very inconsiderate and thoroughly bad-mannered, I think. If one wants to die, one ought to do it decently, out of the line of vision of those who do not enjoy such displays.

But I will not complain. It looks beautiful now, far more beautiful than it ever did when it was springy and horridly green. The leaves have all curled up into knotty brown bits, veined with dark gold. The branches reach upwards like ancient spidery fingers, clinging on to the grille as an invalid desperate to peer outside. A morsel of life drains from those fingers with every sunset, but they will not let go. It is beautiful, this creature suspended in time on the very precipice of its life, and the vitality ebbs from it, bathing the delicate tendrils and wistful leaves and even the hideous red pot in one last burst of golden light.

I know a satisfied plant when I see one. This one is, for taking hold of death and making it beautiful, even for mine incredulous human eyes.

So I'll make my own lovesong
Dare I be crazy and call it so.

Searching my guitar for a familiar face,
My fingers reach for that special place
Where these words so strange to me come breaking through.

Oh the surprise in your eyes
If only you knew.

The Lakes of Billirubin

Princess Clementina, who wouldn't be queen,
Grew mighty bored of all the pretty boys she had seen.
So she left home and caught a bus to nowhere at all.
Holding on tight to your ticket to ride,
Burning with a fire you wanted to hide,
Princess, would you like to taste the high before the fall?

Come on down, they're saying,
To the Billirubin Lakes,
Where painted faces make you laugh
And hearts are free to ache,
Where you don't need a reason
To a rhyme you want to make.
Let us take you down again tonight.

The dashing cavalier on the foam-speckled horse
Once rescued fair damsels as a matter of course,
But he won't believe the man in the mirror anymore.
His fingers grow stony, each new day is strange,
Graying eyes spend hours staring at change.
Where will he find the key to his imaginary door?

Hey soldierman, they're calling
At the Billirubin Lakes,
Where painted faces make you laugh
And hearts are free to ache,
Where you don't need a reason
To a rhyme you need to make.
Let us take you down again tonight.

The village shoemaker in his crowded little room
Hammers a dull rhythm in the deepening gloom.
He's an honest soul, but nobody remembers his name.
Now he sits on the shores of the Billirubin Lakes
And he's hammering to keep the spirits awake.
Though he hears the spectors whisper, to him it's all the same.

It's our season for living, a season for sin,
By the roaring black waters, beneath the wild wind
You can see the blue moon rise above the hill.
And you may drink deep, and dream, and dare,
You can hear pagan laughter in the air,
And in another world mortal clocks are still.

Come on down, they're saying,
To the Billirubin Lakes,
Where painted faces make you laugh
And hearts are free to ache,
Where you don't need a reason
To a rhyme you want to make.
Let us take you down again tonight.