"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 me
And the white chestnut brunches 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 Friedman 4.6.1942
This poem is preserved in typewritten copy on thin paper in the collection of poetry by the poet, which was donated to the State Jewish Museum during its documentation campaign. Pavel Friedman was born on January 7, 1921, in Prague and deported to Terezin on April 26, 1941. He died in Auschwitz on September 29, 1944.
"As the legend goes, If anyone desires a wish to come true they must first capture a butterfly and whisper their wish to it.
Since a butterfly can make no sound, the butterfly can not reveal the wish to anyone but the Great Spirit who hears and sees all.
In gratitude for giving the butterfly its freedom, the Great Spirit always grants the wish. So, according to legend, by making a wish and giving the butterfly its freedom, the wish will be taken to the heavens and be granted."