काश उस दिन उसका भी कोई भाई होता,
आज वो सितारा हमारे बीच ज़िंदा होता।
काश कोई उसे जाकर बचा लेता,
कम से कम उसका तो ख़ून न बहता।

नरभक्षी भेड़ियों ने ली थी उसकी जान,
छोड़ा था उसे वहीं तड़पता, लहूलुहान।
चिल्लाती रही वो उसी जगह पर,
न जाने कितने ही जुल्म हुए थे उस पर।

नारी को निर्वस्त्र करने का परिणाम –
इस भूमि ने महाभारत देखा था।
धिक्कार है ऐसे समाज पर –
उसी भूमि ने आज यह अपराध देखा था।

जल रही हैं मोमबत्तियां शोक व्यक्त करने,
आंदोलन कर रहे हैं लोग और दे रहे हैं धरने।
क्या इस बार होगा उन दरिंदों पर कठिन शासन,
या फिर एक बार उभरेगा एक नया दुःशासन?

It was yet another damning ritual
of waking up to another ******,
looking for the evidence and the witnesses,
It will take another twenty four hours, at least. - someone said.

And then it all started again:
interrogation of the local drunkards, prostitutes
and ****** addicts.
No one dared to probe and torture the good men of this town,
like if they couldn't have done it.

If there is way out of this mess, 
we need to punish the murderers.
But first we have to find them,

while someone is trying to hide them.
Typical.

(For Amen Teklay, Kayden Moy, and every child lost too soon)


In just two months, two lives were lost,
To blades that cut through more than frost.
Amen, just fifteen, fell in March—
On Glasgow’s street beneath the arch.

No warning bell, no time to run,
His story ended, barely begun.
Three boys arrested, young as him—
Innocence drowned, futures grim.

Ten weeks on, the pain still raw,
Kayden found on Irvine’s shore.
Sixteen years, a beach, a knife—
Another boy stripped of his life.

Between these deaths, the toll runs high—
Eleven more hurt under Scotland’s sky.
Sixteen teens cuffed, charged, or tried,
While parents ask, Why has hope died?

A 13-year-old at Asda’s door,
A blade in hand, still wanting more.
Two twelve-year-olds in Lenzie fight,
Left another boy bleeding in night.

Stonehaven shook on March fifteen—
An 18-year-old stabbed on the green.
Eight days after, a child of eleven
Caught with a blade at a funfair heaven.

Kinghorn Beach—thirty in a mob,
Four boys battered, blood-soaked, robbed.
Portobello echoed with sirens' sound—
Three teens stabbed, dropped to the ground.

In Aberdeen, a girl of twelve
Cut by another—what dark spell
Turns children into sharpened rage,
And steel the ink on every page?

A seven-year-old, knife in class—
What lessons did we let him pass?
Three schools, three knives, in children’s hands—
Where did we lose the line we planned?

Two names carved into fresh-dug graves,
While headlines scroll like crashing waves.
Amen. Kayden. Just the start—
A nation tearing at its heart.

This isn’t distant, isn’t past—
These weeks have sliced through us so fast.
How many more must we allow
To fall beneath what we allow?

What justice sleeps while young blood spills?
What silence keeps us standing still?
If two months wrought this ****** toll,
We’ve lost control. We’ve lost control

The heather weeps, a purple bruise,
Across the glens, the chilling news.
No bagpipes drone a mournful sound,
But sirens wail on hallowed ground.
A thistle bleeds, its prickling crown,
As innocence is stricken down.
Young eyes, once bright with Highland fire,
Now gleam with something dark and dire.
The steel they flash, a twisted boast,
A stolen childhood, dearly lost.
Each shadowed lane, a whispered fear,
Of blades that gleam and futures near,
Consumed by rage, a hollow pride,
Where youthful dreams have gone to hide.
Parents clutch, with hearts ablaze,
Afraid to loose in this iron maze.
The ancient stones, they stand and stare,
At broken vows and whispered prayer.
Can Scotland rise, her spirit mend,
And teach these children how to bend,
The steel to craft, the hands to heal,
And learn the wounds are truly real?
To trade the blade for open hand,
And reclaim peace within the land.

Believe me officer,
I know the crows.

I know their black feathers,
Their call is cold,
It terrifies me.

I used to count them,
2 is safe,
3 is a warning,
4 is an omen,
5 is too late,
6 is a ******,
Six means death.

So what was I to do,
When I counted seven up in the roost?
I blew them back to hell,
No more counting,
No more omens.
Is killing those **** birds,
Really a crime?