Circuit dreams glow on the edge of night, A Synth Phonk pulse bathed in violet light. The frame is electric, a digital wire, Carrying rhythm, setting souls afire.
 
A low-slung coupe, a silhouette sleek, On hyper-speed roads where the future must speak. Its engine is bass, a guttural sound, Gliding on grids on electrified ground.
 
Behind, the sun sinks, a tangerine sigh, As palm trees stand sentinel 'neath a starlit sky. But central and stunning, a pagoda stands tall, Its ancient grace beginning to fall.
 
It shatters to pixels, a violet collapse, Of timeless tradition in digital laps. A Chill Remix played through a spectral array, Where old meets the future and fades away.
 
From the temple's slow break, the melody springs, The sound of a genre with dark, driving wings. "By Nanoman," the low-frequency call, Driving the night right through to the wall.