The nocturnal innocence of those eyes—
Like dark, obsidian olives, ever so slightly
In brooding, for their sovereign marrow,
Just in the moments before they are
Appointed to be crushed by witless knaves—
They are dimly aware of their grim destiny;
And, iron-willed, nonetheless,
To rise again with the sinews of an oak,
That uncorks a mystical flask
At its midnight pact with the moon,
Dwarfing the glib, the void, and the phoney—
The lone scion of Corleone …
Photograph Courtesy of Francis Ford Coppola’s The Godfather, 1972.
Arup K. Chatterjee 