The sky, a tegument of livid indigo,Excoriated by the friction of the noun,Began its slow, malodorous adagio,A deliquescent, morphological crown.The king’s own viscera, now polysyllabic,Throbbed with the pulse of anacoluthon;His very marrow, arcane and pre-Arabic,Leaked from the fractures of his lexicon.He sought the thalassic depths of the obscure,To find the ur-word in the benthic muck,But found only the preterite and impure,Where the gnomons of the cosmic clock were stuck.A circumlocution of crows took to the air,Cawing in rhythms of profound despair.
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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