The Butterfly

The Butterfly
Pavel Friedman, April 6, 1942

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.

National Poetry Month comes to an end….You can certainly expect to see poetry on this blog in months besides April, but a little bit more spread out. I hope you’ve seen and enjoyed one or two poems/poets that you weren’t familiar with previously.

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