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.
