The Butterfly

The last, the very last,
so richly, brightly, dazzlingly yellow.
Perhaps if the sun’s tears would sing
against a white stone…
Such, such a yellow
Is carried lightly ‘way up high.
It went away I’m sure because it wished to
kiss the world goodbye.
For seven weeks I’ve lived in here,
Penned up inside this ghetto
But I have found my people here.
The dandelions call to me
And the white chestnut candles in the court.
Only I never saw another butterfly.
That butterfly was the last one.
Butterflies don’t live in here,
In the ghetto.

Written by Pavel Friedman, June 4th, 1942
Born in Prague January 7th, 1921
Deported to Terezin Concentration Camp on April 26th, 1942.
Died in Aushchwitz on September 29th 1944

Inspirational source: http://jeffreyschrier.org/  http://WingsofWitness.org

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