Saturday, February 25, 2006


When I was in high school, my school put on a play based on the book I never saw another butterfly. That play was based on an epynonymous book that was a collection of poetry and paintings from Terezin, the Czech concentration camp where a secret school was set up, where a teacher collected and hid the poetry of the students before he was shipped to Aushwitz and died.

I remember very little from the play except my friend's screaming.

A blog post from a teacher reminded me of the play. The teacher is trying to teach the Holocaust and WWII and leads into the history through poetry.

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 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

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