This is a poem called The Butterfly
Pavel Friedman, June 4, 1942
Born in Prague on January 7, 1921.Deported to the Terezin Concentration Camp on April 26, 1942. Died in Aushchwitz on September 29, 1944.
The last, the very last,I have made my first butterfly, and hope this is not too poignant. I used a Tim Holtz mask ( Borderline, the barbed wire) and the children's faces and a word from Childhood Dreams. The inks are Distress inks.
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 to me
And the white chestnut branches in the court.
Only I never saw another butterfly.
That butterfly was the last one.
Butterflies don’t live in here, in the ghetto
I am planning several more before I send them off.