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STANDING WITH HIS ARMS UP By: Peter L. Fischl** || So I could make a Painting of you Little Polish Boy Standing with your Little hat on your head The Star of David on your coat Standing in the ghetto with your arms up as many Nazi machine guns pointing at you I would make a monument of you and the world who said nothing I would like to be a composer so I could write a concerto of you Little Polish Boy Standing with your Little hat on your head The Star of David on your coat Standing in the ghetto with your arms up as many Nazi machine guns pointing at you I would write a concerto of you and the world who said nothing || I am not an artist But my mind had painted a painting of you Ten Million Miles High is the Painting so the whole universe can see you Now Little Polish Boy Standing with your Little hat on your head The Star of David on your coat Standing in the ghetto with your arms up as many Nazi machine guns pointing at you And the World who said nothing I'll make this painting so bright that it will blind the eyes of the world who saw nothing Ten billion miles high will be the monument so the whole universe can remember of you Little Polish Boy Standing with your Little hat on your head The Star of David on your coat || Standing in the ghetto with your arms up as many Nazi machine guns pointing at you And the monument will tremble so the blind world Now will know What fear is in the darkness The world Who said nothing I am not a composer but I will write a composition for five trillion trumpets so it will blast the ear drums of this world The world's Who heard nothing I am Sorry that It was you and Not me ||
 * **TO THE LITTLE POLISH BOY
 * I would like to be an artist

"The Butterfly" by Pavel Friedman ||  || The last, the very last, So richly, brightly, dazzingly yellow. Perhaps if the sun's tears would sing against a white stone
 * [[image:http://cte.jhu.edu/techacademy/web/2000/baczkowski/butterfly.gif width="70" height="80" caption="butterfly.gif (8949 bytes)"]] ||

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. ||