He wore a cope of woven chrysoprase,Adorned with sigils of a deadened tongue;Through labyrinthine, incense-heavy haze,The iron bells of orthograph were rung."I am the heir to every phoneme’s ghost,The curator of all that’s unpronounced!"He cried before the vast, unlettered host,As every prior edict was renounced.His eyes, now clouded with a cataractOf sheer semantics, saw the world anew:A landscape where the physical was abstract,And every mountain was a noun he knew.The sky was not a sky, but azure’s scream,The jagged syntax of a fevered dream.
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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