The Godfather

The Godfather – A Quiet Portrait

In the dim light of a family’s old parlour,
The Don sits by the mantle, measured and still,
The colour of his silence veils the power,
His love, the stubborn taste of a long‑held thrill.

He speaks with an old‑world cadence, calm as smoke,
”I will make him an offer he can’t refuse,”
Yet here the law is softened by the oak,
And loyalty is kept in the line of a fuse.

Behind the closed doors, the programme of deeds
Is watched by those who’ll stay or leave,
No polish of choice, just the bare bead
Of a blood‑stained oath, the family’s reprieve.

The Don’s sceptre is a quiet keenness,
Where family’s hearth and faint danger are wedded,
A tale of faith, a pledge to appease‑ing,
Bearing on his shoulders the weight of a sovereign,

a man of honor, wrapped in ambition’s veil,
A quiet Godfath—still, from the centre, holds the tale.