𝙸𝚍𝚊 𝚅𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚎

𝙴𝚛𝚊 𝚊𝚐𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝟸𝟶𝟷7. 𝙴𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚟𝚊𝚌𝚊𝚌𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚎𝚗 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚊 𝚢 𝚊𝚋𝚛í 𝚕𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚞𝚝𝚊𝚍𝚘𝚛𝚊: 𝚋𝚞𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚋𝚊 𝚊𝚕𝚐𝚘 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚑𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚗 𝚕𝚊 𝚌𝚒𝚞𝚍𝚊𝚍 𝚊 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚐𝚞𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚘 𝚍𝚎𝚕 𝚖𝚊𝚕 𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚘. 𝙴𝚗 𝙼𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚘, 𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚎 𝚟𝚒𝚟í𝚊 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚜, 𝚎𝚕 𝚒𝚗𝚟𝚒𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚘 𝚎𝚜 𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚐𝚘 𝚢 𝚑ú𝚖𝚎𝚍𝚘, 𝚢 𝚊𝚐𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚘, 𝚊𝚞𝚗𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚎 𝚞𝚗 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚊 𝚎𝚕 𝚏𝚛í𝚘, 𝚎𝚜 𝚞𝚗𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚜 𝚖𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚖á𝚜 𝚌𝚛𝚞𝚍𝚘𝚜, 𝚜𝚘𝚋𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚍𝚘 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚕𝚘𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚘𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚢𝚘. 𝙳𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎 𝚕𝚊 𝚋ú𝚜𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚍𝚊 𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛é 𝚞𝚗𝚊 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚌𝚒ó𝚗 𝚎𝚗 𝚞𝚗 𝚐𝚛𝚞𝚙𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝙵𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚋𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚋𝚊 𝚞𝚗𝚊 𝚕𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚜 𝚎𝚗 𝚕𝚊 𝚕𝚒𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚛í𝚊 𝙿𝚞𝚛𝚘 𝚅𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚘. 𝙼𝚎 𝚐𝚞𝚜𝚝ó 𝚕𝚊 𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚊, 𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚞é 𝚋𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎 𝚋𝚒𝚎𝚗 𝚢 𝚜𝚊𝚕í 𝚊 𝚕𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎.

𝙴𝚗 𝚕𝚊 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚊 𝚊𝚕𝚝𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚕𝚊 𝚕𝚒𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚛í𝚊 𝚞𝚋𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚍𝚊 𝚎𝚗 𝚞𝚗𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚜 𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚘𝚜 𝚖á𝚜 𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚖á𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚘𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝙲𝚒𝚞𝚍𝚊𝚍 𝚅𝚒𝚎𝚓𝚊, 𝚎𝚕 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚌𝚘 𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚐𝚞𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝙼𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚘, 𝚗𝚘𝚜 𝚊𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘𝚍𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚜 𝚞𝚗𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚞𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚛𝚎𝚍𝚎𝚍𝚘𝚛 𝚍𝚎 𝚞𝚗 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚕ó𝚗 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚛ó𝚗 𝚢 𝚖𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚍𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚝𝚎𝚗í𝚊 𝚞𝚗 𝚖𝚒𝚌𝚛ó𝚏𝚘𝚗𝚘 𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎. 𝚄𝚗𝚘𝚜 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚝𝚘𝚜 𝚖á𝚜 𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚎, 𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚐ó 𝙸𝚍𝚊 𝚅𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚎. 𝙴𝚗 𝚊𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚕 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚜 𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚊 𝚢𝚊 𝚎𝚛𝚊 𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚊, 𝚊𝚞𝚗𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚗𝚘 𝚎𝚕 𝚏𝚎𝚗ó𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚟𝚘 𝚎𝚗 𝚎𝚕 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚜𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚟𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚒ó 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚞é𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚋𝚒𝚛 𝚎𝚕 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚒𝚘 𝙲𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚊 𝚎𝚗 𝟸𝟶𝟷𝟾.

𝙼𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘𝚍𝚊𝚋𝚊 𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚕 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚘 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚊𝚍𝚘 𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚎𝚣𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚜 𝚊 𝚊𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚞𝚍𝚒𝚛𝚕𝚊. 𝚃𝚎𝚗í𝚊 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚜 𝟿𝟸 𝚊ñ𝚘𝚜 𝚢 𝚞𝚗𝚊 𝚟𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚍 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚊 𝚝𝚘𝚍𝚊𝚟í𝚊 𝚊 𝚕𝚘𝚜 𝟿𝟾. 𝚂𝚒𝚐𝚞𝚎 𝚟𝚒𝚊𝚓𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘, 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚜, 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚗 𝚕𝚘𝚜 𝚕𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚊𝚚𝚞í 𝚢 𝚊𝚕𝚕á, 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚎𝚓𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚜 𝚢 𝚘𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚎𝚜í𝚊 𝚎𝚗 𝚕𝚘𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚜 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚘𝚜 𝚢 𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚎 𝚊 𝚕𝚘𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚘𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚜 𝚙𝚘𝚎𝚝𝚊𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚒é𝚗 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚣𝚊𝚗 𝚜𝚞 𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚊𝚍𝚞𝚛𝚊 𝚙𝚘𝚛 𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚘.

𝙼𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚜 𝚕𝚊 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚞𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚋𝚊 𝚊𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚊 𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚖𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚛é. 𝚈 𝚗𝚘 𝚎𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚐𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚘. 𝚀𝚞𝚎𝚍é 𝚑𝚎𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚣𝚊𝚍𝚊 𝚙𝚘𝚛 𝚜𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚙𝚊𝚌𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚍 ú𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚍𝚊𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚗 𝚕𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚕𝚊𝚋𝚛𝚊 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚜𝚊, 𝚙𝚘𝚛 𝚜𝚞𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚍𝚘𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚛, 𝚙𝚘𝚛 𝚜𝚞𝚜 𝚐𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚜, 𝚙𝚘𝚛 𝚎𝚕 𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚍𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚎 𝚜𝚞 𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚊 𝚢 𝚕𝚊 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚙𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚜 𝚘𝚓𝚘𝚜. 𝙲𝚞𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚜𝚊𝚕í 𝚍𝚎𝚕 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚕 𝚊𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚊 𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚎 𝚟𝚘𝚕𝚟í 𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚊 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚢 𝚜𝚘ñ𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚕𝚘𝚜 𝚖𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚋𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚗 𝚎𝚜𝚊 𝚖𝚞𝚓𝚎𝚛. 𝙼𝚎 𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚗é 𝚍𝚎 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚍 𝚢 𝚖𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚐𝚞𝚗𝚝é 𝚌ó𝚖𝚘 𝚐𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚊 𝚜𝚞𝚜 𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚜 𝚢 𝚌ó𝚖𝚘 𝚕𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚎𝚓í𝚊 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚞é𝚜 𝚢 𝚌ó𝚖𝚘 𝚕𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚌í𝚊 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚕𝚊𝚜 𝚎𝚗 𝚎𝚜𝚘𝚜 𝚝𝚎𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚘𝚜 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚘𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚊𝚌𝚊𝚋𝚊𝚋𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚘𝚜 𝚎𝚗 𝚟𝚘𝚣 𝚊𝚕𝚝𝚊. ¿𝙲ó𝚖𝚘 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚋𝚒𝚛í𝚊?, ¿𝚊 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚘?, ¿𝚊 𝚖á𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚗𝚊?, ¿𝚘 𝚊𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚘 𝚗𝚘 𝚑𝚊𝚋í𝚊 𝚗𝚊𝚍𝚊 𝚛𝚘𝚖á𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚘 𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚞 𝚘𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚘 𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚌í𝚊 𝚊ñ𝚘𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚞𝚜𝚊𝚋𝚊 𝚕𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚞𝚝𝚊𝚍𝚘𝚛𝚊?

𝙼𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚛ó 𝚞𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚘𝚓𝚘 𝚟𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚣: 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚛í𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚘𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚊 𝚖𝚎𝚓𝚘𝚛 𝚢 𝚝𝚎𝚗í𝚊 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚛í𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚛 𝚊𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚘, 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚗𝚘 𝚕𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚛í𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚖𝚒 𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚊. C𝚘𝚗𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚜𝚝é 𝚊 𝚞𝚗𝚊 𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚐𝚊, 𝚕𝚊 ú𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚊 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚙𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊 𝚊 𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚜𝚎 𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚊 𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚊 𝚜𝚒𝚗 𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚣𝚊𝚜, 𝚢 𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚎𝚣𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚜 𝚊 𝚍𝚎𝚟𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚛 𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚊 𝚢 𝚘𝚋𝚛𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝙸𝚍𝚊 𝚅𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚎. 𝙳𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎 𝚟𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚜 𝚊ñ𝚘𝚜 𝚏𝚞𝚎 𝚗𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚘 𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚊 𝚏𝚊𝚟𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚊𝚌𝚒ó𝚗. 𝙽𝚘𝚜 𝚊𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚜, 𝚗𝚘𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚛ó. 𝙵𝚞𝚎 𝚞𝚗 𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚘 𝚢 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚘𝚜𝚘. 𝚄𝚗𝚊 é𝚙𝚘𝚌𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚊𝚓𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎 𝚎𝚗 𝚕𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚎, 𝚙𝚘𝚛 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚒𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚐ú𝚗 𝚍𝚞𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚎𝚐𝚛𝚎, 𝚗𝚘𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚜 𝚎𝚗 𝚕𝚊 𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚕𝚊 𝚙𝚘𝚎𝚝𝚊. 𝚈 𝚗𝚘 𝚎𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚐𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚘. 𝙰𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚜 𝚎𝚕 𝚑𝚞𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚝𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚊 𝚗𝚘𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚕ó 𝚢 𝚗𝚘𝚜 𝚣𝚊𝚖𝚋𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚖𝚘𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚗 𝚐𝚊𝚗𝚊𝚜 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚌𝚞𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚛 𝚎𝚕 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚘𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚊 𝚞𝚗 𝚙𝚘𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚝𝚘 𝚖á𝚜.

𝙻𝚊 𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚜 𝚟𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚜 𝚟𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚜 𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚊. 𝚄𝚗𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚜 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚜 𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚜 𝚊 𝚜𝚞 𝚊𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚗𝚞𝚎𝚟𝚘 𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚌𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚕𝚊 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚊 𝚎𝚗 𝙼𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚘 𝚢 𝚗𝚘𝚜 𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚗 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚍𝚊𝚟í𝚊 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚊 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚌𝚊𝚓𝚊𝚜 𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚕𝚊 𝚋𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚌𝚊. 𝚂𝚘𝚋𝚛𝚎 𝚕𝚊 𝚖𝚎𝚜𝚊 𝚍𝚎𝚕 𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚎𝚗í𝚊 𝚞𝚗 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚞𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚋𝚒𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚢 𝚞𝚗 𝚘𝚟𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚊, 𝚞𝚗 𝚙𝚊𝚛 𝚍𝚎 𝚊𝚐𝚞𝚓𝚊𝚜 𝚢 𝚞𝚗 𝚋𝚞𝚣𝚘 𝚊 𝚖𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚘 𝚑𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚛. 𝙽𝚘𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚟𝚒𝚝ó 𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚊𝚛, 𝚗𝚘𝚜 𝚊𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘𝚍𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚜 𝚎𝚗 𝚞𝚗 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚕ó𝚗 𝚢 𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚎𝚣𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚜 𝚊 𝚟𝚒𝚊𝚓𝚊𝚛 𝚎𝚗 𝚎𝚕 𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚘. 𝚃𝚊𝚗 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚜 𝚎𝚜𝚝á𝚋𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚜 𝚎𝚗 𝚕𝚘𝚜 𝚕𝚊𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚊𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚕 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚐𝚞𝚎 𝚍𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚞𝚎𝚛𝚍𝚘𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚒𝚋𝚊𝚗 𝚢 𝚟𝚎𝚗í𝚊𝚗 𝚙𝚘𝚛 𝚕𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚜 𝚍é𝚌𝚊𝚍𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚕 𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚕𝚘 𝚇𝚇, 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚗𝚘 𝚗𝚘𝚜 𝚍𝚒𝚖𝚘𝚜 𝚌𝚞𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚐𝚞𝚓𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚕 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚓 𝚜𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚋í𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚘. 𝙲𝚞𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚖𝚘𝚜 𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚘𝚜 𝚌𝚞𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊, 𝚏𝚊𝚕𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚊 𝚞𝚗 𝚌𝚞𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚕𝚊 𝚖𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚌𝚑𝚎.

𝙲𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝙲𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚊í𝚖𝚘𝚜 𝚎𝚗 𝚕𝚊 𝚌𝚞𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚋í𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚛 𝚞𝚗 𝚙𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚊 𝚕𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚊𝚌𝚒ó𝚗. 𝙵𝚞𝚎 𝚎𝚕 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚍𝚊𝚋𝚊 𝚎𝚕 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚎𝚛𝚝ó 𝚍𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚢𝚊 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚊 𝚋𝚒𝚎𝚗, 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚎𝚜𝚝á𝚋𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚜 𝚊𝚋𝚞𝚜𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚜𝚞 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚍, 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚖á𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚌𝚞𝚊𝚝𝚛𝚘 𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚞𝚗𝚒ó𝚗 𝚢𝚊 𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚗 𝚜𝚞𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚢 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚋í𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚜 𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚍𝚘 𝚊 𝚗𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚊 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚍𝚊 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎 𝚊 𝚗𝚘𝚜𝚘𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚍𝚘 𝚊𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚕 𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚘 𝚜𝚒𝚗 𝚕𝚎𝚟𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚜𝚎 𝚗𝚒 𝚜𝚒𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚎𝚛𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚛 𝚊𝚐𝚞𝚊. 𝙳𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚞é𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚜 𝚍𝚒𝚖𝚘𝚜 𝚌𝚞𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊 𝚝𝚊𝚖𝚋𝚒é𝚗 𝚍𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚊 𝚑𝚊𝚋𝚛í𝚊 𝚜𝚎𝚐𝚞𝚒𝚍𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚐𝚘 𝚢 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚎𝚜𝚝á𝚋𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚊𝚍𝚊𝚜 é𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚜𝚘𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚜. 𝙽𝚘𝚜 𝚛𝚎í𝚖𝚘𝚜 𝚋𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎 𝚍𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚘 𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚊 𝚌𝚞𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚟𝚒𝚖𝚘𝚜 𝚕𝚊𝚜 𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚊𝚜 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚗𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚘𝚜, 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚘𝚌𝚞𝚙𝚊𝚍𝚘𝚜 𝚙𝚘𝚛 𝚜𝚒 𝚗𝚘𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚋í𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚊𝚍𝚘 𝚊𝚕𝚐𝚘. 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚜 𝚗𝚘 𝚎𝚛𝚊 𝚕ó𝚐𝚒𝚌𝚘 𝚍𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚛𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚗 𝚞𝚗𝚊 𝚗𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚊. 𝚈 𝚎𝚗 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚍, 𝚜í, 𝚜í 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚕𝚘 𝚎𝚛𝚊, 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚘 𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚊.

𝙼𝚞𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚟𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚘 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚍𝚊𝚜 𝚕𝚊𝚜 𝚘𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚘 𝚎𝚗 𝚕𝚊 𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚊 𝚢 𝚖𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚛 𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚘. 𝙿𝚎𝚛𝚘 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊 𝚟𝚎𝚣, 𝚝𝚎 𝚌𝚞𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚕𝚊 𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚊 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚍𝚎 𝚕𝚊 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎 𝚢 𝚗𝚘 𝚝𝚎 𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚜 𝚎𝚕 𝚐𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚍𝚊. 𝙽𝚘 𝚝𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚜 𝚞𝚗𝚊 𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚊. 𝙴𝚜 𝚞𝚗𝚊 𝚖𝚎𝚣𝚌𝚕𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚘 𝚢 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚐𝚒𝚘, 𝚞𝚗 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚞𝚎𝚛𝚍𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚞𝚗𝚊 𝚋𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚒ó𝚗. ¿𝚈 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚛é𝚜 𝚜𝚊𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚚𝚞é 𝚝𝚎 𝚌𝚞𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚘𝚍𝚘 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚗𝚘 𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚛 𝚚𝚞é 𝚜𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚗𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚎 𝚖á𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚜𝚘𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚜? 𝙴𝚜𝚘 𝚎𝚜 𝚕𝚘 𝚖á𝚜 𝚏á𝚌𝚒𝚕 𝚍𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛: 𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚛𝚟𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚎𝚡𝚌𝚞𝚜𝚊 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚜𝚒 𝚝𝚘𝚍𝚊𝚟í𝚊 𝚗𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚘𝚌é𝚜 𝚊 𝙸𝚍𝚊 𝚅𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚎 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚎 𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚞 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚎𝚣𝚊𝚛.

𝚀𝚞𝚎 𝚝𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚘 𝚜𝚎 𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚎 𝚍𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚎𝚜í𝚊.

𝚄𝚗 𝚊𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚣𝚘,

𝙱𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚊