Under Construction‎ > ‎Departments‎ > ‎English‎ > ‎Book/Genre Pages‎ > ‎American Poetry II‎ > ‎

The Butterfly by Pavel Friedman (1942)

While technically not a American poem. The Butterfly  is included so that students reading night have a common reference point for the Multicultural Studies.
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 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. 
 
Pavel Friedmann 4.6.1942 

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