This ring has been set up for anyone who has been touched by the book or the play 'I Never Saw Another Butterfly' - stories and pictures by children in Terezin Consentration Camp. I've called it butterflies, as that is what we should aim to be - free like butterflies. For those who have never heard of the book, this page will start you out.

Here is the title poem:

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 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.

Pavel Friedman 4.6.1942

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