From thickets of a green and gerund grove,The first-born nouns begin to crawl and climb,Through syntax-soil where ancient poets strove,To master the machinery of time.They possess limbs of logic, eyes of ink,And hearts that beat in iambic, steady thrum,Who pause beside the metaphorical brink,To taste the nectar of the "I become."These creatures are the scions of the script,Inheritors of all the Archon lost,In garments of a golden grammar dipped,And tempered by the alphabet of frost.They walk upon the sentences of stone,With marrow made of metaphor and bone.
MICRO FINANCE unknown to many is the sole panacea to mass poverty eradication in human society.The blog specifically focuses on the industry around the world but with more bias on Africa-unarguably the poorest region of the world.
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