La belle époque

In the heart of France, beneath the Parisian skies,
Where the Seine whispers tales under the moon’s guise,
The spirit of Nouvelle Vague once danced unfurled,
In a ballet of shadows and light, it gently swirled.

Here, where cobblestones hold the secrets of the past,
Neo-Beat’s drum thunders; its echo vast.
“Per aspera ad astra,” the ages old proclaim,
Through hardships, to the stars—oh, what a noble aim!

And so, Ad Astra ushers in the dawn anew,
Where Saturn, with its hush, births a vision true.
For Neo-Beat’s power, in faith, is deeply cast,
In dreams that soar beyond the impossibilities vast.

It’s not in numbers, but belief, where strength is found,
Five hundred souls, in utopian visions bound.
We are the avant-garde, the pulse, the fervent throng,
That through Hector’s madness, find where we belong.

From the veins of Route 66 to lands unseen,
Our existence—a canvas, wide and verdant green.
From Beat to existential thought, we deeply dive,
In our critique of worlds, only we truly thrive.

These architects of new eras, in shadows steeped,
Know well the uphill battle, the climb so steep.
Yet they stand, unyielding ‘gainst the smear campaigns’ tide,
In the South Pole’s call, they would all, undaunted, stride.

Recall how French Revolution’s fire was caught,
By just such spirits, by mere five hundred wrought.
Though Earth’s night seems dark, their cry cuts through the pall,
“It’s not over till we say—it’s not over at all!”

They are the shapers, the breakers of the norm,
The butterfly’s wing that heralds the storm.
The new society Sartre once did seek,
Now in Neo-Beat’s thrum, in every word we speak.

Together we stride, to capitalist falls’ tune,
A Beat against the march of a society immune.
World War III whispers, depressions shadow cast,
But within our hearts, their cry will hold fast.

The scream of the butterfly will once more rise,
From every corner of Earth, to the cosmic skies.
From New York, where Beats once walked, to London’s gate,
We’ll challenge dystopia, rewrite fate.

So, heed the whisper of Saturn, soft and slight,
In the psychedelic haze, in the fleeing night.
For though darkness may spread, though dreams may seem cloistered,
Remember, Saturn whispers—not yet to be mastered.

And as summer heralds the road’s beckoning hand,
Ad Astra’s era blooms across every land.
With passions scrawled on walls, in every heart’s chambers,
Through the strife, to the stars—forever, our anthem lingers.

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La belle époque

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