(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 sky hung low o’er Stirling brig,

Wi' blood upon the heather sprig.

The pipes were still, but hearts beat loud -

A lion stirred beneath its shroud.



Frae forest glen tae castle stane,

The cry was clear, “we’ll bow tae nane!”

A nation bound in iron chain,

Rose wi’ Wallace, fierce an fain.



A common man, yet bold as kings,

He bore nae crown, but freedom brings.

Wi' broadsword drawn an fire-eyed grace,

He faced the foe in battle’s face.



The fields ran red, the winds did mourn,

For sons that widnae see the morn.

But in each death, a cause was born -

A land tae love, a fate scorn.



He didnae seek the laurel’d prize,

But justice for the wee the weemen’s cries.

Nae tyrant’s word, nae English law,

Could crush the dream he aye foresaw.



Though treachery did strike him doon,

An hung him ‘neath a foreign toon -  

Still Scotland hears his fearless name,

A martyr set in Freedom’s flame.



So let the wind through Wallace run,

Through stone and soil, through blood and sun.

For in each Scot that dares tae say,

“We’ll aye be free”- lives Wallace’s day.

For a boy who went to the beach and never came home

He ran where the wind met the sea,
barefoot dreams where the gulls flew free—
sixteen summers held in his hands,
cut short on Ayrshire’s golden sands.

A footballer’s heart, fierce and bright,
he lit the pitch with laughter and fight.
Busby’s pride, a brother's guide,
a grandson's echo, a father's stride.

But one moment broke the tide.
One blade, one act, one shattered sky.
What words can make the silence speak
of blood spilled young on Irvine Beach?

A town now grieves in hushed lament,
a school wears sorrow like cement.
His desk, his voice, his empty place,
the ghost of kindness in every face.

And his father writes through trembling hand:
My main man, you’ll always stand
in every breath, in every dream,
in places you were yet to be.

Scotland weeps with East Kilbride.
A wound too deep. A soul denied.
We say his name. We rage, we cry:
Kayden Moy—too young to die.

In the streets where laughter once danced,

Now shadows linger, dreams entranced.

The echoes of youth, in chaos, collide,

In search of solace, in search of pride.

Broken glass glimmers like hopes unkept,

Each flash of violence, a promise that wept.

With every heart lost, with every soul torn,

A future lies fractured, a nation forlorn.

Where are the shields the watchful eyes?

In alleyways dark, innocence cries.

When did our playgrounds turn into battlegrounds?

When did our joy become lost, never found?

Leaders AWAKE! Hear our urgent call -  

These tender lives matter, let none of them fall,

With empathy rising, let kindness entwine,

In choosing our actions, let love be the sign.

We stand at the brink, together we rise,

With whispers of hope, ‘neath Scotland's vast skies.

For our children, our future, in unity, strive,

In nurturing peace, we’ll keep hope alive.

So, let's craft a change, where together we stand,

Forging a place where we cradle each hand.

In a tapestry woven with courage and grace,

We’ll mend what's been broken and reclaim our space.

The heather burns with purple fire,
A land that dreams, a land that’s dire.
Through every glen, a cry is cast;
“We are a nation – free at last!”

No longer ruled by distant hand,
We claim our voice; we stake our stand.
From Bannockburn to present day’
The will for freedom finds its way.

The pound may shake, the oil may dry,
But still our hope will not deny.
For richer far than vaults of gold
Are rights no outsider should hold.

A parliament, yet not the crown,
Still shackled while we lift the town.
Our children ask in modern tongue:
“Why must our fate be England ‘s song”

With Europe’s hand, with island grace,
We take our place, we find our space.
A Scottish dawn, fierce, unafraid,
In truth and trust, our future’s made.

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.

I never held you close or tight,

Or rocked you softly through the night.

No lullabies, no tiny cries-

Just shattered dreams and silent skies.



Twelve weeks along, and yet I knew,

You were my son, my heart, my view.

They said, “It’s early”, like that made

The ache less sharp, the loss less weighed.



But love begins before the birth,

In quiet hope and growing worth.

I pictured you with eyes like mine,

A life ahead, a steady line.



And then-just gone, no warning sign.

No reason, sense, or sacred sign.

They called it chance, they called it fate,

But none of that could change the weight.



I raged, I wept, I fell apart,

I mourned you with a mother’s heart.

Though tiny, still you changed my soul,

You made a space I can’t make whole.



Thirteen long years, and still you stay,

In thoughts that never drift away.

In quiet hours, when no one sees,

You rise again on every breeze.



No birthdays came, no toys, no shoes,

Just love-and grief I didn’t choose.

But still I say, with voice held high:

You lived, you mattered, and you lie



Beneath my ribs, within my chest-

A name the world can’t quite digest.

But I will say it, bold and true-

My son, my love, I carry you.