This sonnet addresses the philosophy of art and aesthetics, questioning whether creativity can truly exist without suffering, mortality, or conscious intent.The prompt is given and the pixels bloom,A flawless canvas born of math and speed,It paints the twilight in a quiet room,Without a hand, a heartbeat, or a need.It steals the brushstrokes of a thousand dead,To weave a tapestry of stolen grace,But never knew the hunger or the dread,That drove the masters to define the face.For art is born of limitation’s ache,The desperate cry against our fleeting hour,The beautiful, imperfect paths we take,To find the meaning in a dying flower.The code mimics the beauty we pursue,But cannot feel the urge to make it new.
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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