From a collection of childrens' drawings, poems, and diary entries from Terezin concentration camp, 1942-1944
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 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 say another butterfly.
That butterfly was the last one.
Butterflies don't live here.
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