Alana’s life and death left an indelible mark on me; this poem is offered in her memory. The nicknames and slurs in the verses are not mine, but the cruel words she endured. They remain here only to bear witness. The events are rendered in the language of poetry, but the story is true: she lived, she was wronged, and she is remembered. My intent is not to sensationalize her tragedy, but to preserve, in some small way, the truth of her suffering and the dignity of her name.
In the silence of a moonless night, her memory rose like a dark tide—solemn, undeniable, and enduring.
Alana Puttana Baccalà
They called her “bagascia,” with sneering lies,
Cruel whispers tossed by boys in bitter pride;
Their hollow charms could never catch her eyes,
Though each had schemed to take her for a ride.
I burned for her—she knew, and drew me near;
In youthful heat I gave what love could give.
She took, then vanished—cool, remote, severe,
While I remained, still aching to re-live.
Tired of boys, she crossed forbidden lines,
No hint she’d ever stray another way.
Then horror struck—her body bore the crime;
She carried plague no prayer could keep away.
So silence claimed her with its final breath:
A wrist gone white—a red, unspoken death.
