𝚀𝚞𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚘 𝙼r. 𝚁𝚘𝚋𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚘𝚗

T𝚎 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚋𝚘 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚍𝚎 𝚕𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚍 𝚍𝚎 𝚖𝚒 𝚌𝚘𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚊, 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚍𝚊 𝚎𝚗 𝚞𝚗𝚊 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚊 𝚖𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚍𝚒𝚝𝚊, 𝚊𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚊ñ𝚊𝚍𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚊 𝚝𝚊𝚣𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚝é 𝚢 𝚍𝚎𝚕 𝚕𝚒𝚋𝚛𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚋𝚒ó 𝚜𝚘𝚋𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚒 𝙳𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚎𝚕 𝙳𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚎. 𝚀𝚞𝚒𝚎𝚛𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚗 𝚟𝚘𝚜 𝚞𝚗 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚖𝚒 𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚊. 𝙷𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚘𝚜 𝚍í𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚎𝚝í𝚊 𝚕𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚜 𝚎𝚗 𝚎𝚕 𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚛 𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚛 𝚞𝚗𝚊 𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚟𝚎𝚗í𝚊 𝚖𝚊𝚕 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚊𝚍𝚊 𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚜é 𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚞𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚘. 𝙼𝚎 𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚐𝚒𝚗é 𝚗𝚊𝚞𝚏𝚛𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚟𝚘𝚜 𝚢 𝚖𝚎 𝚟𝚒 𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚊𝚍𝚊, 𝒾𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚜𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚛 𝚍𝚎 𝚕𝚊 𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚌𝚒ó𝚗 𝚊𝚕 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚙𝚒𝚘 𝚢 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚞é𝚜, 𝚙𝚘𝚌𝚘 𝚊 𝚙𝚘𝚌𝚘, 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚋𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚍𝚘 𝚍í𝚊𝚜 𝒶𝓅á𝓉𝒾𝒸𝑜𝓈 𝚌𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚜 𝑒𝓃𝓉𝓇𝑒 𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚜 𝓎 𝚙é𝚜𝚒𝚖𝚘𝚜. 𝚂𝚞𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚌𝚞𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎 𝚊𝚑í 𝚝𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎 𝚊𝚋𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚍𝚘 𝚞𝚗 𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚘, ¿𝒸𝒾𝑒𝓇𝓉𝑜? C𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚜í. 𝙴𝚜 𝚕𝚘 𝚖á𝚜 𝚕ó𝚐𝚒𝚌𝚘 𝚢 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚊𝚝𝚘, 𝚗𝚘 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚜 𝚊𝚌𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚘𝚜 𝚊 𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚙𝚝𝚊𝚛 𝚕𝚘𝚜 𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚘𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚕 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚘 𝚊𝚜í 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚊𝚜í, 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚜 𝚌𝚞𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚊𝚗 𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚖á𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚘𝚜. 𝙽𝚘 𝚝𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚍ó 𝚘𝚝𝚛𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚛 𝚢 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚛. 𝙿𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎 𝚊 𝚙𝚛𝚞𝚎𝚋𝚊 𝚝𝚞 𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚣𝚊.

𝙲𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚊𝚋𝚊𝚗 𝚕𝚘𝚜 𝚊ñ𝚘𝚜, 𝚓𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚞 𝚗𝚞𝚎𝚟𝚊 𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚊, 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚌í𝚊𝚗 𝚕𝚘𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚘. 𝙻𝚘𝚜 𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚣𝚘 𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚘 𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚍𝚊𝚣𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚌í𝚊 𝚝𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚋𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚎𝚜𝚘. 𝙼𝚎 𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚘 𝚕𝚊𝚜 𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚐𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚒é𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚍𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚎 𝚊 𝚜𝚞𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚗 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚒𝚊 𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚞 𝚙𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚎ñ𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚘 𝚛𝚘𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚛. 𝙰𝚞𝚗𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚗𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚊 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚟𝚎 𝚎𝚗 𝚞𝚗 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚙𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚘, 𝚗𝚒 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚙é 𝚍𝚎 una 𝚌𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚑𝚊, 𝚗𝚒 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚛é 𝚎𝚗 𝚞𝚗 𝚖𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚘, 𝚙𝚞𝚎𝚍𝚘 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚕 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚊𝚓𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚗𝚒𝚏𝚒𝚌ó 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚟𝚘𝚜 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚘. 𝙿𝚞𝚎𝚍𝚘 𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚛 𝚝𝚊𝚖𝚋𝚒é𝚗 𝚝𝚞 𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚑𝚊 𝚌𝚞𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚙𝚘𝚛 𝚏𝚒𝚗 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚋𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎 𝚞𝚗 𝚙𝚊𝚗 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚞é𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚢 𝚕𝚊 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚙𝚌𝚒ó𝚗 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚋𝚒ó 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚟𝚘𝚌𝚊𝚛te 𝚗𝚘 poder 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚕𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚗 𝚗𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚎. 𝙱𝚞𝚎𝚗𝚘, 𝚙𝚘𝚛 𝚕𝚘 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚘𝚌𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎 𝚊 𝚅𝚒𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚜.

𝚃𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚌í𝚊, 𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚍é 𝚍𝚎 𝚟𝚘𝚜 𝚌𝚞𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚖𝚎 𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚊𝚋𝚊𝚓𝚘 𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚕𝚒ó 𝚖𝚊𝚕 𝚞𝚗𝚊 𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚊. 𝙲𝚛𝚎𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚒𝚝é 𝚎𝚗 𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚊𝚌𝚘𝚝𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚍𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚜 𝚙𝚘𝚛 𝚘𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚜𝚊𝚜. 𝙲𝚞𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚕𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚝é 𝚢 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚞𝚋𝚛í 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚊 𝚌𝚛𝚞𝚍𝚘 𝚝𝚞𝚟𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚊𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚊𝚛 𝚎𝚕 𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚘. 𝙵𝚞𝚎 𝚊𝚑í 𝚌𝚞𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚊𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎 𝚎𝚗 𝚖𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚘𝚜. 𝙴𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚓𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚜𝚒𝚎𝚐𝚘. 𝙿𝚞𝚎𝚍o 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚎 𝚎𝚡𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚍a (𝚜𝚊𝚋𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚢 𝚊𝚕𝚝𝚊𝚜 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚒𝚋𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚊𝚜í 𝚜𝚎𝚊), 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚘 𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚖𝚘 𝚙𝚊𝚗, 𝚝𝚘𝚜𝚌𝚘 𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚓𝚘𝚜, 𝚜𝚎𝚛í𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚍𝚘 𝚊𝚕 𝚝𝚞𝚢𝚘. 𝙽𝚘 𝚜é 𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚜𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚞𝚣ó 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊 𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚊, 𝚕𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚜í 𝚝𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚐𝚘 𝚎𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚣ó. E𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚘 𝚗𝚘 𝚘𝚏𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚎. No 𝚎𝚜 𝚖𝚒 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚒ó𝚗.

𝙿𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚕𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚊 𝚎𝚗 𝚕𝚊 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚊 𝚢 𝚕𝚊 𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚛é 𝚋𝚒𝚎𝚗, 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚘. 𝙽𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚊 𝚌𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒ó𝚗 𝚍𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚜𝚎 𝚌𝚞𝚎𝚕𝚎 𝚞𝚗 𝚙𝚘𝚌𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚎𝚍𝚊𝚍 𝚢 𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚊𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚛 𝚚𝚞é 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚛í𝚊 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚎. 𝚁𝚘𝚐𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚜 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚜 𝚢 𝚎𝚕 𝚟𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚊 𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚎 𝚕𝚊 𝚑𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚗 𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚛 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚘. 𝚈𝚊 𝚜𝚊𝚋𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚟𝚘𝚜 𝚟𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎 𝚊ñ𝚘𝚜 𝚗𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚗𝚊𝚍𝚊. 𝚂𝚘𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚑𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚊𝚕 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚋𝚒𝚛𝚕𝚊 𝚖𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚛á𝚜 𝚗𝚘 𝚑𝚊𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚎 regalad𝚘 𝚞𝚗 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚗 𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚘. 𝙽𝚘 𝚝𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚘𝚌𝚞𝚙𝚎𝚜, 𝚕𝚊 𝚙𝚛ó𝚡𝚒𝚖𝚊 𝚝𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚞𝚗𝚊 𝚍𝚊𝚖𝚊𝚓𝚞𝚊𝚗𝚊.

𝙴𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚎𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚊𝚗 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘, 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚗 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚗𝚊 𝚕𝚎𝚌𝚑𝚎 𝚢 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚍𝚎𝚗 𝚋𝚒𝚎𝚗. 𝙴𝚕 𝚒𝚗𝚟𝚒𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚘 𝚎𝚜 𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚐𝚘 𝚊 𝚟𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚜 𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚢 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚘. 𝚈𝚊 𝚜é 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚕𝚘 𝚜𝚊𝚋é𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚋𝚛𝚊, 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚘. 𝚃𝚞 𝚜𝚊𝚋𝚒𝚍𝚞𝚛í𝚊, 𝚢 𝚜𝚒 𝚖𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚒𝚝í𝚜 𝚝𝚞 𝚜𝚊𝚕𝚟𝚊𝚌𝚒ó𝚗, 𝚏𝚞𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚘 𝚌ó𝚖𝚘 𝚘𝚌𝚞𝚙𝚊𝚛 𝚝𝚞 𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚘. 𝙴𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚊𝚍𝚘. 𝙼𝚎 𝚐𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛í𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚋𝚛𝚎 𝚎𝚜𝚘, 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚘 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚎𝚜 𝚖á𝚜 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚊𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚎𝚓𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚘 𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎. 𝙴𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚝𝚎 𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚐𝚊 𝚕𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚊 𝚢 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚍í𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚎, 𝚌𝚊𝚙𝚊𝚣 𝚗𝚒 𝚗𝚘𝚜 𝚊𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚛 𝚎𝚕 𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚊.

𝙰𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚣𝚘.

𝙱𝚞𝚎𝚗𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚑𝚊.

𝑩𝒍𝒂𝒔𝒂