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.