An Accident in Bucharest

Since I was a little boy
learning how to use my feet
I’ve been always taught by mum
to make sure and pay attention
when I have to cross the street.

“Never, ever, on the red light!
Never where the traffic’s denser.
If you see no traffic lights
Zebra crossing is the answer.”

Black and white strips, orange flashing.
That day I could feel no fear.
More than that, a nice little granny
smiled at me and said: “My dear,
 if you need some help, I’m here!”

Up and down the street, no sound.
No cloud on the morning sky
just two headlights in the distance.
Enough time to cross the street,
enough time to get home dry.

As soon as I stepped on zebra
I could hear a crow’s shrill cry.
I could see a pair of wings
casting shadows at my feet
flying low, but aiming high.

Suddenly my nape went cold
sending shivers down my spine.
I could say, without a doubt,
there was something in the air
like an omen, like a sign.

Then I heard a rumbling thunder,
and I felt a ruthless pain,
crushing bones and stripping flesh,
I was kicked up in the air
just to land on a different lane.

I could see an ambulance
flashing lights and distant voices.
I could smell the anaesthetics
and I heard the little granny
sobbing between other noises.

Should I tell you what came next,
when my parents hand in hand
were invited in my ward
and they saw me tied to bed?
Mum just cried out once and fainted.
What a pain, such grief I brought!
Doctors, nurses, exchanged glances.
They all seemed to know my fate.
They all knew my neck was broken
and I’d never walk again.

Hours later, whispers floating.
It was little granny’s voice:
“He was riding like a ghost!
Switching lanes, at lightning speed.
In his black and shiny jacket.
leather trousers, smoky helmet,
I can bet he was Sorin,
our mayor’s only child
riding his black motorbike
he just got it as a gift
from his rich godfather Mike.”

Few policemen now showed up.
They took notes, they talked to granny.
Dad was calm but soon got hot.
First he listened, now he’s shouting.
Rage and hatred shake the huddles.
Nurses offer everybody
cups on trays and water bottles.

The policemen shrug and mumble
arguing on evidence.
They can’t blame Sorin, they say,
when they have no plate, no number,
not even the make for bike.
All they have is just a helmet
and a crow and then the strike.

As I listen, I agree.
They can’t blame him.
They are right.
Not without a plate, or number,
or at least a make for bike!

Mum gave me to drink some water
with a fond look in her eyes.
Couldn’t spot the make of water.
Daddy’s shouting, mummy cries.