𝙼𝚛. 𝚂𝚝𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚘𝚗

(¿𝚘 𝚙𝚞𝚎𝚍𝚘 𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎 𝚁𝚘𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚝 𝙻𝚘𝚞𝚒𝚜?)

𝚖𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚐𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚊 𝚎𝚕 𝙲𝚊𝚙𝚒𝚝á𝚗 𝙵𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚝 𝚚𝚞é 𝚙𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚜. 𝙼𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚍é 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚊 𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚕𝚊 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚍𝚊𝚍 𝚗𝚘 𝚜é 𝚚𝚞é 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚕 𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚘 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚎. 𝙼𝚎 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚛𝚛ó 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚍𝚊.

𝙿𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚘 𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚍𝚒é 𝚞𝚗 𝚙𝚘𝚌𝚘 𝚢 𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚜é 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚎𝚕 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚖𝚘 𝚜𝚎 𝚕𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚋𝚒ó 𝚊 𝚕𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚋𝚎𝚣𝚊. 𝚃𝚎 𝚒𝚋𝚊 𝚊 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚐𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚛 𝚚𝚞é 𝚘𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚜, 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚘 𝚕𝚘 𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚜é 𝚖𝚎𝚓𝚘𝚛 𝚢 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚍í 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚗 𝚍𝚊𝚛 𝚖á𝚜 𝚟𝚞𝚎𝚕𝚝𝚊𝚜: 𝚗𝚘 𝚖𝚎 𝚐𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚊𝚗 𝚕𝚊𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚕𝚎í 𝚕𝚊 𝚝𝚞𝚢𝚊. 𝙴𝚛𝚊 𝚞𝚗 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚓𝚞𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚘, 𝚜𝚘𝚋𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚍𝚘, 𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚜 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚊 𝚊𝚜𝚘𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚊 𝚕𝚊𝚜 𝚙𝚎𝚕í𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚊𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚞𝚕𝚊𝚗 𝚋𝚊𝚜𝚊𝚍𝚊𝚜 𝚎𝚗 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚜 𝚢 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚗 𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚘𝚍𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚐𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚎𝚜: 𝚕𝚊 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚝𝚊 é𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚊, 𝚕𝚘𝚜 𝚎𝚏𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚘𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚒ó𝚗, 𝚕𝚘𝚜 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚌𝚞𝚖𝚞𝚕𝚊𝚗 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚎 𝚎𝚗 𝚞𝚗 𝚜𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚊𝚖é𝚗. 𝙳𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚍𝚘𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚍𝚘𝚜, 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚘𝚣𝚌𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚜𝚊 𝚎𝚜 𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚘 𝚊𝚞𝚍𝚒𝚘𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚢 𝚘𝚝𝚛𝚊 𝚖𝚞𝚢 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚊 𝚎𝚕 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚜𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚐𝚊 𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚞 𝚗𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚒ó𝚗.

𝙲𝚞𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚒𝚗é 𝙻𝚊 𝚒𝚜𝚕𝚊 𝚍𝚎𝚕 𝚝𝚎𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝í 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚊 𝚞𝚗 𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚘 𝚢, 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚊 𝚝𝚘𝚍𝚘 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚗ó𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚘, 𝚑𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚊 𝚖𝚎 𝚕𝚘 𝚙𝚊𝚜é 𝚋𝚒𝚎𝚗. 𝙴𝚗 𝚊𝚕𝚐𝚞𝚗𝚘𝚜 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚜 𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝í 𝚞𝚗 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚓𝚎 𝚍𝚎 𝚕𝚊 𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚊. 𝙲𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚞𝚗𝚊 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚊 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚛 𝚍𝚎𝚕 𝚓𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝙹𝚒𝚖 𝙷𝚊𝚠𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚜, 𝚊𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚊ña𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚕𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚣𝚘𝚗𝚊 𝚎𝚗 𝙻𝚊 𝙷𝚒𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚘𝚕𝚊, 𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚊𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚊 𝚗𝚘𝚜 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚗 𝚟𝚒𝚎𝚓𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚗 𝚎𝚕 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚟𝚒𝚊𝚓𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚊 𝚕𝚊 𝚒𝚜𝚕𝚊 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚊 𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚎 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚊 𝚎𝚕 𝚝𝚎𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚘. 𝙼𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚓é 𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚟𝚊𝚛 𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚘𝚛 𝚎𝚕 𝚟𝚊𝚒𝚟é𝚗 𝚍𝚎 𝚕𝚊 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚜í𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚎𝚗 𝚞𝚗 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚜é, ¿𝚙𝚘𝚛 𝚚𝚞é 𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚛é 𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚑𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚎 𝚟𝚒𝚊𝚓𝚎?

𝚃𝚞 𝚕𝚒𝚋𝚛𝚘 𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚞𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚍á𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚊 𝚖𝚊𝚢𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚌𝚎 𝚢 𝚢𝚘, 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚢 𝚋𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚍𝚒𝚝𝚊, 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚛é 𝚊𝚕 𝚊𝚐𝚞𝚊 𝚊 𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚚𝚞é 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚊𝚋𝚊. 𝙽𝚘 𝚝𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚎𝚜 𝚞𝚗𝚊 𝚊𝚞𝚍𝚊𝚌𝚒𝚊, 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚛é 𝚊𝚕 𝚊𝚐𝚞𝚊 𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚜é 𝚗𝚊𝚍𝚊𝚛. 𝚃𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚢 𝚝𝚘𝚍𝚊 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊 𝚌𝚑á𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚟𝚊𝚗𝚣𝚊𝚋𝚊 𝚎𝚗 𝚕𝚊 𝚕𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚊 𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚛é 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚒𝚛 𝚖𝚒 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚒𝚊 𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚗 𝚍𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚜 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚜. 𝙴𝚜𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚍𝚛í𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚛 𝚖í𝚗𝚒𝚖𝚘, 𝚎𝚜 𝚞𝚗 𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚛𝚘, 𝚜𝚘𝚋𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚍𝚘 𝚎𝚗 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚖𝚘𝚜 𝚙𝚒𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚊 𝚢 𝚜𝚎 𝚌𝚞𝚎𝚕𝚊 𝚜𝚒𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚛𝚎 𝚕𝚊 𝚏𝚘𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚞𝚗 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚋𝚛𝚎 𝚍𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚗 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚘, 𝚙𝚊𝚝𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚕𝚘, 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚗 𝚎𝚕 𝚘𝚓𝚘 𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚗 𝚞𝚗 𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚘 𝚊𝚕 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚋𝚛𝚘. ¿𝙿𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚝𝚞 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚙𝚌𝚒ó𝚗 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚊𝚛í𝚊 𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚘?

𝚃𝚞 𝚕𝚒𝚋𝚛𝚘 𝚊𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚎𝚜𝚊 𝚎𝚕 𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚘 𝚜𝚒𝚗 𝚎𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚓𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚛. 𝙼𝚎𝚗𝚞𝚍𝚘 𝚖é𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚘. 𝚈𝚊 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚜 𝚌𝚞𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚘𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚕𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚢 𝚜𝚎 𝚙𝚞𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚜𝚘𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚘 𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚗 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚙𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚕 𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚍𝚘, 𝚗𝚘 𝚝𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚐𝚘 𝚎𝚗 𝚌𝚒𝚎𝚗 𝚊ñ𝚘𝚜, 𝚎𝚗 𝚞𝚗𝚊 𝚍é𝚌𝚊𝚍𝚊.

𝙻𝚊𝚛𝚐𝚊 𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚊 𝚊 𝚝𝚞 𝚗𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚊 𝚢 𝚊 𝚕𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚞𝚋𝚛í 𝚌𝚘𝚗 𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚊.

𝚄𝚗 𝚊𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚣𝚘,

𝘉𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘢

𝙿.𝙳.

𝚈𝚊 𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚘 𝚝𝚞 𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚊𝚢𝚘 𝙲𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚛 𝚎𝚗 𝚕𝚊 𝙲𝚘𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚊𝙱𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚌𝚊, 𝚎𝚗 𝚌𝚞𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚞𝚎𝚍𝚊 𝚝𝚎 𝚕𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚘.