The Butterfly
Pavel Friedman
1942
He was the last. Truly the last.
Such yellowness was bitter and blinding
Like the sun’s tear shattered on stone.
That was his true color.
And how easily he climbed, and how high.
Certainly, climbing, he wanted
To kiss the last of my world.
I have been here seven weeks.
Ghettoized.
Who loved me have found me,
Daisies call to me,
And the branches…
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