𝙼𝚎 𝚟𝚘𝚢 𝚊 𝚗𝚊𝚍𝚊𝚛 𝚕𝚊 𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚊

𝙴𝚜 𝚞𝚗 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚘 𝚌𝚕á𝚜𝚒𝚌𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚘. 𝙲𝚒𝚎𝚗 𝚙𝚘𝚛 𝚌𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚘. 𝙴𝚜 𝚌𝚒𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚂𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚔 𝙷𝚘𝚕𝚖𝚎𝚜, 𝙿𝚘𝚒𝚛𝚘𝚝 𝚘 𝙰𝚐𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚊 𝙲𝚑𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚍𝚛í𝚊𝚗 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚘 𝚎𝚗 𝚞𝚗 𝚜𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚊𝚖é𝚗, 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚘 𝚢𝚘 𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚜 𝚊𝚝𝚊𝚍𝚊𝚜. 𝙾 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚜𝚎𝚛 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚜𝚊, 𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚘 𝚕𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚜 𝚘𝚌𝚞𝚙𝚊𝚍𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚊𝚙á𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚕𝚊 𝚋𝚘𝚌𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚗𝚘 𝚜𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚊 𝚕𝚊 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚍í𝚋𝚞𝚕𝚊 𝚍𝚎𝚕 𝚊𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚋𝚛𝚘. 𝙽𝚒 𝚜𝚒𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚎𝚛𝚊 𝚊𝚕𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚌é 𝚊 𝚕𝚎𝚟𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚛 𝚎𝚕 𝚕á𝚙𝚒𝚣 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚋𝚒𝚛𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚞𝚗𝚊 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚊 𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚜𝚞𝚜 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚘𝚜.

𝙰𝚕 𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚊𝚛 𝚖𝚒 𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚊 𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚞𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚍𝚘 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚣ó 𝚌𝚘𝚗 𝚞𝚗𝚊 𝚎𝚡𝚝𝚛𝚊ñ𝚎𝚣𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚌í𝚊 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚎 𝚊 𝚝𝚘𝚍𝚘 𝚎𝚕 𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚘: 𝚊𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚕 𝚍í𝚊 𝚑𝚊𝚋í𝚊 𝚞𝚗 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚘 𝚢 𝚞𝚗𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚎𝚝𝚞𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚜𝚞𝚊𝚕. 𝙰𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚊 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚖𝚘 𝚕𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚛í𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝚢 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚣á𝚜 𝚜𝚎𝚊 𝚕𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚊 𝚝𝚘𝚍𝚘 𝚕𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚘 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚞é𝚜.

𝙼𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚝é 𝚝𝚘𝚍𝚊𝚟í𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚗 𝚕𝚊 𝚍𝚞𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚊 𝚢 𝚖𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚟𝚊𝚗𝚝é 𝚍𝚎 𝚊 𝚙𝚘𝚌𝚘, 𝚑𝚊𝚌𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚞𝚗𝚘𝚜 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚘𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚜𝚒 𝚏𝚞𝚎𝚛𝚊 𝚞𝚗 𝚐𝚊𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚣á𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚍𝚊 𝚊𝚕 𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚎 𝚍𝚎 𝚕𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚊. 𝙿𝚊𝚜é 𝚙𝚘𝚛 𝚎𝚕 𝚋𝚊ñ𝚘 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚕𝚊𝚟𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚎 𝚕𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚢 𝚖𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚒𝚗é 𝚖𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚊𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚒𝚛 𝚊 𝚕𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚊. 𝙿𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚊𝚛é 𝚎𝚕 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚊𝚢𝚞𝚗𝚘 𝚢 𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝é 𝚎𝚗 𝚕𝚊 𝚖𝚎𝚜𝚊 𝚖𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚊𝚋𝚊 𝚎𝚕 𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚘𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚊 𝚍𝚎𝚕 𝚍í𝚊 𝚊 𝚕𝚊 𝚟𝚎𝚣 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚋𝚊 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚊 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚕 𝚍𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚝𝚎𝚗í𝚊 𝚢 𝚍𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚌í𝚊𝚗 𝚏𝚊𝚕𝚝𝚊 𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚛í𝚊 𝚖𝚒 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚊 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚊𝚝𝚊. 𝙸𝚋𝚊 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚞𝚗𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚜𝚊 𝚢 𝚘𝚝𝚛𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚎𝚗 𝚓𝚞𝚎𝚐𝚊 𝚊 𝚕𝚊 𝚛𝚊𝚢𝚞𝚎𝚕𝚊. 𝙰𝚕 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕, 𝚌𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚘𝚍𝚘 𝚖á𝚜 𝚘 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚘, 𝚖𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚙𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚊 𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚎𝚣𝚊𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚗 𝚕𝚊 𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚊. 𝙸𝚗𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎 𝟷, 𝚘𝚔, 𝚕𝚞𝚎𝚐𝚘 𝚎𝚕 𝟸, 𝚘𝚔, 𝚎𝚕 𝟹, 𝚘𝚔 𝚢 𝚊𝚜í 𝚜𝚞𝚌𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚟𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎. 𝙴𝚝𝚊𝚙𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚘, 𝚍𝚎 𝚊𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚊𝚍𝚘 𝚢 𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚎𝚕 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚍𝚘 𝚢 𝚕𝚊 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚛 𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚌𝚒ó𝚗. 𝙴𝚕 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚓 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚌í𝚊 𝚊𝚟𝚊𝚗𝚣𝚊𝚛 𝚖á𝚜 𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚎𝚕 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚌𝚎𝚜𝚘. 𝚈𝚘 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚊 𝚊𝚕𝚕í 𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊 𝚊 𝚕𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚘𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚛í𝚊 𝚜𝚒𝚗 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚛 𝚕𝚘𝚜 𝚘𝚓𝚘𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚖𝚊 𝚊 𝚕𝚊 𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚊. 𝚃𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚜é 𝚢 𝚖𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚜 𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚜 𝚕𝚎𝚟𝚊𝚍𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚞𝚒𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚗 𝚜𝚞 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚌𝚎𝚜𝚘 𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚕, 𝚜𝚊𝚕í 𝚞𝚗 𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚕 𝚋𝚊𝚕𝚌ó𝚗. 𝚀𝚞𝚎𝚛í𝚊 𝚊𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚛 𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚋𝚒𝚛 𝚞𝚗𝚘𝚜 𝚛𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚝𝚘𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚕 𝚎𝚗 𝚕𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚊, 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚢𝚊 𝚑𝚊𝚋í𝚊 𝚊𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚍𝚘 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚜 𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚘𝚜 𝚟𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚘𝚜. 𝙰𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚌𝚑é 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚎 𝚞𝚗 𝚙𝚊𝚛 𝚍𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚓𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚕𝚊 𝚑𝚒𝚎𝚍𝚛𝚊. 𝚄𝚗 𝚙𝚊𝚛 𝚍𝚎 𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚊𝚜 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚊𝚍𝚊𝚜 𝚎𝚗 𝚞𝚗𝚊 𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚝𝚊 𝚍𝚎𝚕 á𝚕𝚊𝚖𝚘 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚣𝚊𝚗𝚋𝚊𝚗 𝚊 𝚍ú𝚘 𝚢 𝚖á𝚜 𝚕𝚎𝚓𝚘𝚜 𝚞𝚗𝚊𝚜 𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚎𝚛𝚘𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚞𝚗 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚘, 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚜𝚒𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚛𝚎, 𝚖𝚞𝚢 𝚊𝚕𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚊𝚍𝚊𝚜.

𝙷𝚊𝚋í𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚟𝚘𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚊 𝚕𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚊, 𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚛. 𝙿𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚝é 𝚎𝚕 𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚘, 𝟸𝟺𝟶º. 𝙳𝚒𝚜𝚙𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚜 𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚊 𝚊𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚐𝚊𝚍𝚊 𝚜𝚘𝚋𝚛𝚎 𝚕𝚊 𝚏𝚞𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎, 𝚕𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚚𝚞é 𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚞 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚛 𝚢 𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚛é 𝚘𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚜 𝟷𝟻 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚝𝚘𝚜. 𝙲𝚞𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚗ó 𝚕𝚊 𝚊𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚊 𝚍𝚎𝚕 𝚑𝚞𝚎𝚟𝚘-𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚗ó𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚛𝚘, 𝚍𝚒 𝚞𝚗 𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚣𝚘 𝚊 𝚖𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚟é𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚕 𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚕. 𝚃𝚘𝚍𝚘 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚊 𝚋𝚒𝚎𝚗. 𝙰𝚕𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚣𝚊𝚍𝚊 𝚕𝚊 𝚖𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚊 𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚊 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚎𝚝í 𝚎𝚕 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚌𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚘 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊 𝚟𝚎𝚣, 𝚊𝚕 𝚖𝚒𝚛𝚊𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚌𝚒𝚊 𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚘 𝚗𝚘𝚝é 𝚊𝚕𝚐𝚘 𝚎𝚡𝚝𝚛𝚊ñ𝚘. 𝙻𝚊 𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚊 𝚑𝚊𝚋í𝚊 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚍𝚘, 𝚜í, 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚘 𝚝𝚎𝚗í𝚊 𝚞𝚗𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚢 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚜 𝚞𝚗 𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚡𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚜. 𝙴𝚕 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚗𝚘 𝚎𝚛𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚘𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚜 𝚟𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚜, 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚜 𝚙𝚊𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚋í𝚊 𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚘 𝚢 𝚎𝚜𝚝á𝚗 𝚎𝚗 𝚞𝚗 𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚊𝚗𝚜𝚒ó𝚗 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚍𝚊, 𝚙𝚘𝚛 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚛𝚕𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚐𝚞𝚗𝚊 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚊. 𝙰𝚗𝚝𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚓𝚘𝚜 𝚝𝚎𝚗í𝚊 𝚊𝚕𝚐𝚘 𝚊𝚓𝚎𝚗𝚘 𝚊 𝚕𝚊 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚝𝚊, 𝚊 𝚕𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚊, 𝚊 𝚕𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚊 𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚜𝚘, 𝚊𝚓𝚎𝚗𝚘 𝚊 𝚖𝚒. 𝙰𝚕 𝚊𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚛 𝚕𝚊 𝚙𝚞𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚊 𝚢 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚞é𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚋𝚒𝚛 𝚕𝚊 𝚘𝚕𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚛 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚋𝚊ñó 𝚖𝚒 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚕𝚘 𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚎: 𝚑𝚊𝚋í𝚊 𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚍𝚘 𝚊𝚕 𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚘 𝚕𝚊 𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚊𝚝𝚊𝚜 𝚢 𝚕𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚚𝚞é 𝚏𝚞𝚎𝚛𝚘𝚗 𝚋𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚊𝚜. 𝚄𝚗𝚘𝚜 𝚎𝚓𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚘𝚜, 𝚙𝚘𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚘𝚜, 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚕𝚘𝚜 𝚘𝚌𝚎á𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚘𝚜, 𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚜, 𝚎𝚗 𝚕𝚞𝚐𝚊𝚛 𝚍𝚎 𝚊𝚣𝚞𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚎𝚗í𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚘𝚜 𝚝𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚍𝚘𝚜.

𝙰𝚕 𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚊 𝚕𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚍é 𝚍𝚎 𝚘𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚞𝚢 𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚊𝚜, 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝙼𝚘𝚋𝚢 𝙳𝚒𝚌𝚔, 𝚕𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚜𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚎 𝙶𝚎𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚘 𝚢 𝚊 𝙿𝚒𝚗𝚘𝚌𝚑𝚘 𝚘 𝚕𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚜𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚊 𝚊 𝙹𝚘𝚗á𝚜. 𝙻𝚊𝚜 𝚟𝚎í𝚊 𝚊 𝚝𝚘𝚍𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚗 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚍. 𝙴𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚊𝚗 𝚗𝚊𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚎𝚗 𝚕𝚊 𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚓𝚊 𝚢 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚜, 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚎𝚗 𝚕𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚜, 𝚖𝚒 𝚋𝚘𝚌𝚊 𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚋𝚛𝚒ó 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚋𝚘𝚌𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚌𝚎𝚝á𝚌𝚎𝚘 𝚍𝚎𝚕 𝚊𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚋𝚛𝚘.

𝙲𝚞𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚛é 𝚟𝚘𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚊 𝚕𝚊 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚍 𝚢 𝚙𝚞𝚍𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚞𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚛 𝚎𝚕 𝚐𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚒ó 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚊𝚜 𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚕𝚐𝚘. 𝙿𝚎𝚗𝚜é: ¿𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚣á𝚜 𝚞𝚗𝚊 𝚙𝚛ó𝚡𝚒𝚖𝚊 𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚊? 𝚈 𝚜í, 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚙𝚘𝚛 𝚜𝚊𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝚚𝚞é 𝚎𝚛𝚊 𝚕𝚘 𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚞𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚘𝚌𝚊𝚋𝚊 𝚟𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚛. 𝙴𝚗𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚜 𝚖𝚎 𝚛𝚎í 𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚊. 𝚁𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚍é 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚜é 𝚍í𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚗 𝚗𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚐𝚒𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚛 𝚢 𝚜𝚎 𝚟𝚎 (𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚜 𝚕𝚘 𝚖á𝚜 𝚘𝚋𝚟𝚒𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚍𝚘 𝚕𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚝𝚎 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘) 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚎 𝚞𝚗 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚊𝚗 𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚢 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚍𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚘𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚒ó 𝚕𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚎𝚕𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚊𝚛 𝚎𝚗 𝚎𝚜𝚘𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚘𝚜: 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚗𝚘 𝚏𝚞𝚒 𝚊𝚕 𝚖𝚊𝚛, 𝚎𝚕 𝚖𝚊𝚛, 𝚎𝚗 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚘 𝚕𝚊𝚜 𝙱𝚕𝚊-𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚊𝚜, 𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚎𝚛𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚊 𝚖𝚒. 𝚈 𝚎𝚜𝚘, 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚊𝚌𝚞𝚎𝚛𝚍𝚘, 𝚎𝚜 𝚞𝚗 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚘, ¿𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚜í?

𝚃𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚓𝚘 𝚞𝚗 𝚊𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚣𝚘, 𝚖𝚎 𝚟𝚘𝚢 𝚊 𝚗𝚊𝚍𝚊𝚛 𝚕𝚊 𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚊.

𝙱𝚎𝚜𝚘𝚜,

𝙱𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚊.

Las Bla-llenas me invitan a nadar. Me voy con ellas, a nadar la vida.