by Pavel Friedman
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 good-bye.
For seven weeks I’ve lived in here, Penned up inside this ghetto.
But I have found what I love here.
The dandelions call to me And the white chestnut branches in the court.
Only I never saw another butterfly.
That butterfly was the last one.
Butterflies don’t live in here, in the ghetto.
Pavel was seventeen when he was murdered.