Author’s Note

Dear Reader,

This poem confronts a truth that many try to look away from—the vulnerability of children in a world that fails to protect them, and the complacency of those in power who prioritize comfort or profit over safety. Like Lambs to the Slaughter is both an elegy for the innocent and a call to awaken our collective conscience.

It is stark. It is uncomfortable. It is meant to stir outrage, empathy, and reflection. Approach it with your heart open, and let the words linger. Let them demand you see, remember, and feel.

—Rowan Evans

Like Lambs to the Slaughter
Poetry by Rowan Evans

We send them off with backpacks and hope, 
With laughter that echoes down halls so bright, 
Yet the shadows loom, silent as a knife, 
A darkness that creeps through morning light.

The bell rings, a call to innocence’s end, 
For in these halls, safety bends— 
Under the weight of iron and lead, 
A nightmare that lives where children tread.

Like lambs to the slaughter, we send them still, 
Their trust in our hands, their fate a bitter pill. 
We close our eyes, turn away from the stain, 
Pretending that prayers will ease the pain.

But the wolves wait, just out of sight, 
While those in power do nothing but recite— 
Thoughts and prayers, empty and stale, 
A whispered hymn in a funeral wail.

Parents tremble with a silent dread, 
Kissing foreheads, combing small heads, 
As they wonder, in the deepest dark, 
Is this the day that breaks their heart?

The slaughterhouse doors open wide, 
Another school, another child’s cry, 
Yet the leaders remain unmoved, unfazed, 
Counting their coins in a world ablaze.

The lambs walk in, unaware of the knife, 
Their futures stolen, their dreams sliced. 
And we stand by, numb to the grief, 
Hoping tomorrow brings some relief.

But tomorrow is the same as today, 
Another headline, another child’s name. 
And still, the powerful sit on their thrones, 
Ignoring the graves, the scattered bones.

Like lambs to the slaughter, we send them all, 
While the wolves feast and the angels fall. 
How many more before we rise? 
Before we see the blood in our eyes?

Until we burn their thrones to the ground, 
And reclaim the safety we’ve longed to surround. 
No more lambs, no more slaughter, 
No more fear for sons and daughters.

For the slaughter must end, the cycle break, 
Or we’ll all drown in the blood we forsake.

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