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Elon Musk at 54
Under the sapphire sky, at fifty-four enchanted dawns,
a dreamer weaves his path among constellations of desires,
from the ashes of Pretoria, an ancestral fire ignites, calling us
to Mars, where stars weave promises of light.
With the hands of an alchemist and the soul of a wandering poet, he breaks the boundaries
of the old world, his mind cutting through dogmas like a silver sword,
sculpting new horizons, endlessly asking "Why?",
and the sky answers him with its deep silence, rockets dancing
where gravity loses its spell, and dreams fly free.
Tesla vibrates under his fingers like a harp of lightning,
an electric pulse traverses the universe, while Neuralink whispers:
"The mind is an epic code, and the world is an endless canvas."
On X, his voice thunders like an echo from the depths, a laugh and a cry,
fighting the shadows of bureaucracy, the dogmas that would pin him down.
No chain can bind him, nor fear of the infinite void,
he is a pilgrim of the cosmos, with a soul of fire that burns
with the desire to see beyond the horizon, to make humanity
multiplanetary, not just dust scattered in the cosmic wind.
At fifty-four stellar spirals, with eyes set upon the universe,
Musk becomes a beacon for those who dare to secretly dream,
from chaos and doubt, he builds a road to the future,
always asking "Why not now?" under the eternal sky of dreams.

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