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The Butterfly

By Pavel Friedman


   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 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.

  


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