The being of a Cicero and his Ducati white...

The road that went round and round
in the urban jungle
of coops holed into
concrete builds...
Cicero never takes...
his white Ducati
has twin disc brakes
and twin ignition
if one fails
the other he switches on
and he just flies...
away away from the mist and the fog...
straight to another province...
another morn...

he races without a trail
he has nothing to tail...
all he wants the wind through his hair
and the neopolitan cheesey layer
of art...creation and fountains of hope
he runs his Ducati up the slope...

and

he has that feel that lingers on
he believes in His another morn...

and

That church on Santa Maria...
sometimes he there stops...
the white marble statue of Virgin Mary
where stands smiling all the day...
Cicero races his Ducati white through the fog grey...

and he leaves no trail
he has nothing to tail...

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