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Butterfly Project- “The Pain Strikes Sparks on me the Pain of Terezin”

Fifteen beds. Fifteen charts with names, Fifteen people without a family tree. Fifteen bodies for whom torture is medicine and pills. Beds over which the crimson blood of ages spills. Fifteen bodies that want to live here. Thirty eyes seeking quietness. Bald heads that gape from out of the prison. The holiness of the suffering, which is none of my business. The loveliness of the air, which day after day Smells of strangeness and carbolic. The nurses that carry thermometers Mothers who grope after a smile. Food is such a luxury here. A long, long night, and a brief day. But anyway, I don't want to leave The lighted rooms and the burning checks, Nurses who leave behind them only a shadow To help the little sufferers. I'd like to stay here, a small patient, Waiting the doctor's daily round, Until, after a long, long time, I'd be well again. Then I'd like to live And go back home again.

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