Well, the last one,
So rich, bright and dazzling yellow,
Perhaps, it is the golden tears of the sun.
Fall on a white stone ...
That, that golden yellow.
Light and straight.
I believe it has disappeared, because.
It wants to say goodbye to this world by itself.
I lived here for seven weeks,
Imprisoned in this concentration camp.
But I found something I like here.
Dandelion is greeting me.
There are chestnut branches with white flowers in the yard.
It's just that I've never seen another butterfly.
That butterfly is the last one.
Butterflies don't live here,
Not living in a concentration camp.
Barville Friedman, the author of this poem, was born in Prague and was sent to Auschwitz at the age of 2 1. Two years later, he was killed by the gas chamber.
There is no record of him anymore. Young Barville was just one of the millions of Jews who died here.
There was too much destruction and death in that era, and the only truth we believed was the rancid smell in that human area and the fearful eyes written by young people and old people.
But now, we read another thing-flying butterflies, tears of the golden sun, chestnut branches with white flowers, which jumped out with the brightest light in the darkest life time of Barville.