The last, the very last,
So richly, brightly, dazzlingly yellow.
Perhaps if the sunís tears would sing
against a white stone. . . .
Such, such a yellow
Is carried lightly Ďway up high.
It went away Iím sure because it wished to
kiss the world good-bye.
For seven weeks Iíve 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 donít live in here,
in the ghetto.