This poem has been on my beloved Musante picture frame for at least one year now, I used to read it once in a while, it was one of the sweetest things I have ever read and it's a poem from my grandpa.
We used to write to each other often, old school letters with a stamp and everything, I would seal mine with sealing wax, red, or purple, cause grandpa understood all forms of art.
Sometimes I'd put pictures of my London life that I had printed and hand-cut for him and not long ago he had found one and he put it in his lounge, next to all the the ones he liked the most: it was a picture of me and my mum near the house of parliament when she came to visit me in London.
We stopped writing letters to each other when I was working too hard and doing ridiculous hours, but it was always on my mind. I need to write to him, I'd think, in the middle of some job or travel, but just wouldn't do it most of the times. I have no regrets, he knows how much i loved him, but tonight unspoken words are on my mind and in this case, like in others, they are a reminder of how much i hate them.
Unspoken words are always damaging.
Tonight I don't want them, It's too lonely here for unspoken words. Tonight I want to hear the ones that make me go home in a heart beat.
"A poem from Grandpa Guido for you, Martina: Your return to London."
The plane has landed
on time, by memory,
and in London has landed
your young story.
Another flight, another journey,
your english life
preceded by wisdom
through your courteous emigration.
A wanderer's path
that blossoms with time:
the Patience, the value of
wanting to know more.
But already your thought comes back here
where you turn your face,
while up north flies
your sweet smile.
(I miss you so much.)