Christo The Driver

     

Christo The Driver


It was late in the morning
When the bus left the camp
Deep in the mountains
One summers end.
The children singing on the yellow bus
All brown from the sun
On their knees the crust
Of crawling around in the forests` dust.

The driver was black
And they hated his skin-
He had lost his wife and his only pride in the boys` crowd.
Was his youngest son and he too was a scout.
They called them names, they did no longer hear
The drivers name was Christo
And his conscience was clear.

And the children teased his son
But he took it with a smile
And he knew he would grow
To a strong bearing soul.
The bus took the curves
Sawing down the hills
When all the brakes failed
And they got a deadly pace

The driver was black
And they hated his skin-
He had lost his wife and his only pride in the boys` crowd
Was his youngest son and he too was a scout.
They called them names, they did no longer hear
The drivers name was Christo
And his conscience was clear.


All the children crying –
And heavy rain
The bus became faster
They prayed in vain
And clinged to the straps
As apes on a tree
But no guardian angel
And nowhere to flee.

The driver was black
And they hated his skin-
He had lost his wife and his only pride in the boys` crowd
Was his youngest son and he too was a scout.
They called them names, they did no longer hear
The drivers name was Christo
And his conscience was clear.

The last curve of the mountain-
They shot over a slope,
Sailed through the air
As a yellow boat!
Suddenly a bang
And from three meters high
They impacted on the little lake nearby.

The driver was black
And they hated his skin-
He had lost his wife and his only pride in the boys` crowd
Was his youngest son and he too was a scout.
They called them names, they did no longer hear
The drivers name was Christo
And his conscience was clear.

Smashed into pieces
A yellow bus
Shattered windows
Flowing in floods
Sinking as fast as the most heavy stone
Deep and deeper into the lakes deadly mud.


The driver was black
And they hated his skin-
He had lost his wife and his only pride in the boys` crowd
Was his youngest son and he too was a scout.
They called them names, they did no longer hear
The drivers name was Christo
And his conscience was clear.

The driver fought for every life
And brought all of them out
By immersing dives.
He went to the limit of his strength
And did dive and dive-
Again and again.
He did not think,
He saw no skin,
Nineteen dives
And a last race to win!


The driver was black
And they hated his skin-
He had lost his wife and his only pride in the boys` crowd
Was his youngest son and he too was a scout.
They called them names, they did no longer hear
The drivers name was Christo
And his conscience was clear.

The twentieth boy-
He was never found
Together with his father in the lake
- He was drowned-
The driver and his son
- United in death-
And nineteen saved boys
- Indebted to them-!

The driver was black
And they hated his skin-
He had lost his wife and his only pride in the boys` crowd
Was his youngest son and he too was a scout.
They called them names, they did no longer hear
The drivers name was Christo
And his conscience was clear.

On a black rainy day a whole town sunk into mourn
When two white empty caskets through the streets were worn.
The bells from all belfries rang their sweetest song
Ringing for a strong man and his little black-skinned son.
They died for white-skinned children,
For them colour of skin meant none!

On the memorial stone in golden shinning letters
The city engraved:

They are our heroes
- Christo and his son-
Our children did they save
But they have forever gone!
Had they seen a skin-colour in any face
Discrimination would have killed nineteen
A lake is two black heroes` grave.

 

©denise-a. langner-urso