The last, the very last,

So richly, brightly, dazzingly 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 the 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.


- Pavel Friedmann 4.6.1942