The Butterfly

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.

This entry was posted in Uncategorized and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s