The Butterfly
The last, the very last,
So richly, brightly, dazzlingly yellow.
Perhaps if the sun's tears would sing
against a white stone…
For seven weeks I've lived in here,
Penned up inside this 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.
Such, such a yellow
Is carried lightly ‘way up high.
It went away I'm sure because it wished to
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 this 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.
The poem is preserved in typewritten copy on thin paper in the collection of poetry by Pavel Friedmann, which was donated to the National Jewish Museum during its documentation campaign. It is dated June 4, 1942 in the left corner. Pavel Friedmann was born January 7, 1921, in Prague and deported to Terezín* on April 26, 1942. He died in Oswiecim* (Auschwitz) on September 29, 1944. *Terezín was a Nazi concentration camp. Source.
Friday marked the beginning of Passover. Part of the service is to remember the Holocaust. Sunday, today, is Easter. How can we write of tragedy and hope, without being angry? For, even as we celebrate one or both of these holy days, isn't Russia continuing its war against Ukraine, displacing some 4.7 million so far and killing and/or injuring thousands more?
I have no words today.
Join in April's Poetry Challenge with Robert Brewer of Writer's Digest. Brewer says: "For today's prompt, write a mad poem. There are things that make us mad as well as things that drive us mad. Whatever your interpretation of the word, I hope you have fun with this prompt."
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