Olivia Williams: 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 wishes 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.

4/6/1942  

Pavel Friedmann

This is a poem I liked from I Never Saw Another Butterfly.

This is a collection of poems written by children during the Holocaust.