¿𝙰𝚍ó𝚗𝚍𝚎 𝚎𝚜𝚝á𝚜, 𝚅𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚘?

𝚅𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚜 𝚊 𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚎𝚣𝚊𝚛 𝚙𝚘𝚛 𝚎𝚕 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚙𝚒𝚘: 𝚜é 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚗𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚜 𝚞𝚗𝚊 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚍 𝚊 𝚕𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚜𝚎 𝚕𝚎 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚋𝚊𝚗 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚜. 𝙻𝚘 𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚘 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚛í𝚜𝚒𝚖𝚘 𝚙𝚘𝚛 𝚞𝚗𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚞𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚜 𝚛𝚊𝚣𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜. 𝙻𝚊 𝚖á𝚜 𝚕ó𝚐𝚒𝚌𝚊: 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚗𝚘 𝚝𝚎𝚗é𝚜 𝚟𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚊 𝚏𝚒𝚓𝚊. 𝙴𝚜𝚝á𝚜 𝚞𝚗 𝚌𝚞𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚎𝚕 𝚊ñ𝚘 𝚎𝚗 𝚎𝚕 𝚂𝚞𝚛 𝚢 𝚘𝚝𝚛𝚘 𝚌𝚞𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚗 𝚎𝚕 𝙽𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚎. 𝙴𝚜𝚝𝚎 𝚊ñ𝚘 𝚝𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚍í 𝚍𝚎 𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚊. 𝚃𝚞𝚟𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎 𝚊𝚕 𝚖𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚘 𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚒 𝚌𝚘𝚗 𝙸𝚗𝚟𝚒𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚘 𝚊𝚕 𝚜𝚞𝚛 𝚖𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚜 𝚟𝚘𝚜 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚊𝚜 𝚎𝚗 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚘 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚐𝚞𝚎 𝚍𝚎 𝚝𝚞𝚜 𝚏𝚞𝚎𝚛𝚣𝚊𝚜 𝚎𝚗 𝚎𝚕 𝙽𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚎. 𝚂𝚞𝚙𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚘 𝚢 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚐𝚘𝚜. 𝙰𝚕𝚐𝚞𝚗𝚘𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚎𝚜𝚝á𝚜 𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚓𝚊𝚍𝚘 𝚢 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚍𝚊 𝚍í𝚊 𝚕𝚘 𝚟𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚍𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚛 𝚞𝚗 𝚙𝚘𝚌𝚘 𝚖á𝚜. 𝙿𝚎𝚛𝚘 𝚗𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚎𝚛𝚘 𝚌𝚊𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚗 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜, 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚎𝚛𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚌𝚞𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎 𝚊𝚕 𝙷𝚎𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚘 𝙽𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚎, 𝚢𝚘 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚟𝚒𝚊𝚓𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚛 𝚎𝚕 𝚂𝚞𝚛, 𝚢 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚜𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚊, 𝚗𝚘 𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛é 𝚞𝚗 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚑𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚐𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚎. 𝙿𝚘𝚛 𝚎𝚜𝚘 𝚝𝚎 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚋𝚘, 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚘 𝚅𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚘. 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚙𝚊𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚗𝚘 𝚏𝚞𝚎 𝚞𝚗 𝚊𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚘, 𝚗𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚊 𝚎𝚕 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚒𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚞𝚎𝚛𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚌𝚒ó𝚗 𝚍𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚊 𝚢 𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚐𝚘𝚜. 𝙿𝚘𝚛 𝚎𝚜𝚘 𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚒.

𝙻𝚊 𝚌𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒ó𝚗 𝚎𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚊𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚊, 𝚌𝚞𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚟𝚘𝚜 𝚎𝚜𝚝á𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚊𝚍𝚘 𝚎𝚗 𝚎𝚕 𝚂𝚞𝚛, 𝚢 𝚢𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚘 𝚊 𝚖𝚒 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚊 𝚎𝚗 𝚎𝚕 𝙽𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚎, 𝚗𝚘 𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚘 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚘 𝚊𝚍ó𝚗𝚍𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚊𝚛 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚊. 𝙵𝚞𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚘 𝚙𝚘𝚛 𝚎𝚜𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚟í 𝚙𝚞𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚊 𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚝, 𝚙𝚘𝚛 𝚜𝚒 𝚊𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚘 𝚗𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚝á𝚜 𝚋𝚞𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚛 𝚊𝚕𝚐𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚗𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚙𝚊𝚜 𝚎𝚗 𝚕𝚊 𝚠𝚎𝚋 𝚢 𝚍𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚖𝚒𝚐𝚘. 𝙳𝚎 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚊, 𝚖𝚞𝚕𝚝𝚒𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚘 𝚕𝚊𝚜 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚋𝚊𝚋𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚍𝚊𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚐𝚘, 𝚜𝚘𝚋𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚍𝚘 𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚍𝚞𝚍𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚎𝚗 𝚎𝚕 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚣𝚘 𝚝𝚎 𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜 𝚢 llames a mi 𝚙𝚞𝚎𝚛𝚝a.

𝙳𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚞é𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚊 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚍𝚞𝚌𝚌𝚒ó𝚗 𝚟𝚘𝚢 𝚊𝚕 𝚙𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚘. 𝚃𝚎 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚋𝚘 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛é 𝚞𝚗 𝚕𝚒𝚋𝚛𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚘 𝚎𝚗 𝚕𝚊 𝚋𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚌𝚊 𝚍𝚎𝚕 𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚟𝚊 𝚝𝚞 𝚗𝚘𝚖𝚋𝚛𝚎. 𝚂𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚝𝚞𝚕𝚊 𝙴𝚕 𝚕𝚒𝚋𝚛𝚘 𝚍𝚎𝚕 𝚅𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚘 𝚢 𝚎𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚃𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝙹𝚊𝚗𝚜𝚜𝚘𝚗. 𝙲𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚜 𝚅𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚘 𝚌𝚛𝚎í 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚝𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚊𝚛í𝚊 𝚜𝚊𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝚚𝚞é 𝚌𝚞𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚜𝚊𝚜 𝚙á𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚜. 𝙴𝚕 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚙𝚒𝚘 𝚖𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚜𝚝ó 𝚞𝚗 𝚙𝚘𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚝𝚘. 𝙻𝚊 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚍𝚊𝚍 𝚜𝚎𝚊 𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚑𝚊. 𝙽𝚘 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍í𝚊 𝚙𝚘𝚛 𝚍ó𝚗𝚍𝚎 𝚒𝚋𝚊 𝚕𝚊 𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚊. 𝙿𝚎𝚛𝚘 𝚌𝚞𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚟𝚊𝚋𝚊 𝚞𝚗𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚞𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊 𝚙á𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚜 𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚎𝚌é 𝚊 𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚎 𝚌𝚞𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊. 𝚅𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚘, 𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚕𝚐𝚘 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎: 𝚝𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚜, 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚒 𝚝𝚘𝚍𝚘𝚜, 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚣á𝚜 𝚗𝚘 𝚝𝚎 𝚌𝚞𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚝𝚎 𝚐𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛í𝚊, 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚘 𝚝𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚜 𝚢 𝚝𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚜. 𝙾 𝚎𝚜𝚘 al 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚜 𝚖𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚎 𝚊 𝚖í, 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚊𝚍𝚘𝚛𝚘 𝚕𝚘𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚞𝚎𝚛𝚍𝚘𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚜 𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚜 𝚓𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚘𝚜 𝚌𝚞𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚗𝚘 𝚑𝚊𝚌í𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚊𝚕𝚝𝚊𝚛 𝚕𝚘𝚜 𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚖ó𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚜 𝚊 𝟺𝟶º𝙲 (𝚘 𝚖á𝚜) 𝚍𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎 𝚍í𝚊𝚜 𝚢 𝚍í𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚐𝚞𝚊.

𝙴𝚗 𝚎𝚕 𝚕𝚒𝚋𝚛𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚟𝚊 𝚝𝚞 𝚗𝚘𝚖𝚋𝚛𝚎, 𝚞𝚗𝚊 𝚊𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚕𝚊, 𝚞𝚗 𝚙𝚊𝚍𝚛𝚎 𝚢 𝚞𝚗𝚊 𝚗𝚒𝚎𝚝𝚊 𝚜𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚗 𝚞𝚗𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚗 𝚎𝚗 𝚞𝚗𝚊 𝚒𝚜𝚕𝚊 𝚎𝚗 𝙵𝚒𝚗𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚊. 𝙻𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚊 𝚎𝚗 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚍 𝚎𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚕𝚊 𝚊𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚕𝚊, 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚢 𝚗𝚘 𝚑𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚜𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚊𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚕𝚊. 𝙿𝚘𝚛𝚚𝚞𝚎, 𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚘, 𝚑𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚘𝚍𝚘 𝚝𝚒𝚙𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚊𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚜, ¿𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚜í? 𝙴𝚜𝚊 𝚖𝚊𝚗í𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚣𝚊𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚍𝚘 𝚞𝚗 𝚙𝚘𝚌𝚘 𝚊𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚘. 𝙴𝚜𝚝𝚊 𝚊𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚕𝚊 𝚊𝚍𝚘𝚛𝚊 𝚊 𝚜𝚞 𝚗𝚒𝚎𝚝𝚊, 𝚊𝚞𝚗𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚗𝚘 𝚕𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚞𝚎 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑𝚘 𝚕𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎. 𝙿𝚘𝚛 𝚎𝚓𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚘, 𝚌𝚞𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚕𝚊 𝚗𝚒𝚎𝚝𝚊, 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚛 𝚌𝚒𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚘, 𝚜𝚎 𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚖𝚊 𝚂𝚘𝚏í𝚊, 𝚜𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚊 𝚘 𝚌𝚞𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚜𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚍𝚒𝚊 𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚗𝚘 𝚑𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚜, 𝚕𝚊 𝚊𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚕𝚊 𝚗𝚘 𝚕𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚗𝚒 𝚖𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚘 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚘.

𝙰𝚖𝚋𝚊𝚜 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚊𝚗 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑𝚘 𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚘 𝚓𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚜: 𝚜𝚎 𝚌𝚞𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚗 𝚕𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚙𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚊𝚗, 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚗 𝚕𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚍𝚊, 𝚙𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚢 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚌𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚋𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚋𝚛𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎, 𝚜𝚘𝚋𝚛𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚝𝚊𝚜 𝚢 𝚜𝚘𝚋𝚛𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚋𝚒𝚊 𝚕𝚊 𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚊 𝚎𝚗 𝚕𝚊 𝚖𝚒𝚗ú𝚜𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚊 𝚒𝚜𝚕𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚋𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚗. 𝙰 𝚟𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚗 𝚍𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚜 𝚕𝚞𝚌𝚒é𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚜, 𝚍𝚎 𝚕𝚊 𝚕𝚕𝚞𝚟𝚒𝚊 𝚢 𝚍𝚎 𝚌ó𝚖𝚘 𝚕𝚊𝚜 𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚕𝚎𝚟𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚗 𝚞𝚗𝚊 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚞𝚖𝚊 𝚊 𝚜𝚞 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚘 𝚙𝚘𝚛 𝚎𝚕 𝚖𝚊𝚛 𝙱á𝚕𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚘. 𝚄𝚗𝚊 𝚟𝚎𝚣, 𝚊𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚕𝚊 𝚢 𝚗𝚒𝚎𝚝𝚊 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚐𝚎ñ𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚗 𝚌ó𝚖𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚜𝚎 𝚎𝚗 𝚕𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚞𝚗 𝚟𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚘 𝚗𝚞𝚎𝚟𝚘 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚒 𝚎𝚛𝚊 𝚜𝚘𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚘 𝚘 𝚜𝚒 𝚜𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚍í𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚊𝚛 𝚎𝚗 é𝚕. 𝙲𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚟𝚎𝚜, 𝚑𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚗 𝚎𝚜𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚜𝚊𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚊𝚗 𝚌𝚞𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚜 𝚟𝚘𝚜, 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚏𝚛𝚞𝚝𝚊𝚛 𝚍𝚎𝚕 𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚘 𝚕𝚒𝚋𝚛𝚎 𝚢 𝚍𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚜 𝚙𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚎ñ𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚜𝚊𝚜, 𝚢 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚞é𝚜 𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚒𝚎𝚣𝚊𝚗 𝚊 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚛𝚜𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚕𝚊 𝚙𝚛ó𝚡𝚒𝚖𝚊 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚌𝚒ó𝚗. 𝚂𝚒 𝚗𝚘 𝚖𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚜, 𝚏𝚒𝚓𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚎𝚗 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚎 𝚙á𝚛𝚛𝚊𝚏𝚘. P𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝á 𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚒ó𝚗:

“𝙰ñ𝚘 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚜 𝚊ñ𝚘, 𝚕𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚕 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚘 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚟𝚘 𝚌𝚊𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚌𝚎𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚋𝚛𝚎 𝚕𝚊 𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚊. 𝚈 𝚞𝚗𝚊 𝚗𝚘𝚌𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚎 𝚊𝚐𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚛, 𝚢 𝚍𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚎 𝚟𝚞𝚎𝚕𝚟𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚐𝚛𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚎𝚕 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚋ó𝚗 𝚢 𝚞𝚗 𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚎 𝚢 𝚘𝚜𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚘 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚘 𝚜𝚎 𝚌𝚒𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚎 𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚘 𝚊 𝚕𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚊. 𝚃𝚘𝚍𝚊𝚟í𝚊 𝚎𝚜 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚘, 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚘 𝚢𝚊 𝚗𝚘 𝚞𝚗 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚘 𝚟𝚒𝚟𝚘, 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚘 𝚞𝚗 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚜𝚎 𝚑𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚘 𝚜𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚓𝚊𝚛𝚜𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚕 𝚝𝚘𝚍𝚘, 𝚎𝚗 𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚎𝚕 𝚘𝚝𝚘ñ𝚘 𝚜𝚎 𝚕𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚊. 𝚃𝚘𝚍𝚊𝚟í𝚊 𝚗𝚘 𝚑𝚊𝚢 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚜, 𝚕𝚘 ú𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚢 𝚎𝚜 𝚎𝚜𝚘: 𝚘𝚜𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚍. 𝚈 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚜 𝚜𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚌𝚊 𝚍𝚎𝚕 𝚜ó𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚘 𝚕𝚊 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚘 𝚢 𝚜𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚓𝚊 𝚎𝚗 𝚎𝚕 𝚟𝚎𝚜𝚝í𝚋𝚞𝚕𝚘, 𝚢 𝚜𝚎 𝚌𝚞𝚎𝚕𝚐𝚊 𝚕𝚊 𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚜𝚞 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚟𝚘, 𝚓𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚊 𝚕𝚊 𝚙𝚞𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚊. 𝙽𝚘 𝚒𝚗𝚖𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚊𝚝𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎, 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚘 𝚙𝚘𝚌𝚘 𝚊 𝚙𝚘𝚌𝚘, 𝚍𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚘, 𝚕𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚜𝚊𝚜 𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚒𝚎𝚣𝚊𝚗 𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚋𝚒𝚊𝚛 𝚍𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚘 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚜𝚎𝚐𝚞𝚒𝚛 𝚕𝚊 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚜 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚌𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜.”

𝚅𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚘, ¿𝚟𝚘𝚜 𝚎𝚜𝚝á𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚊𝚌𝚞𝚎𝚛𝚍𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚗 𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚜? 𝚂𝚎𝚛í𝚊 𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚜𝚊𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚘. 𝚈 𝚗𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚜𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚘. 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚖𝚒 𝚜𝚎𝚛í𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚊𝚛 𝚍𝚎𝚕 𝚘𝚕𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚘 𝚊 𝚝𝚘𝚍𝚊𝚜 𝚕𝚊𝚜 𝚕𝚞𝚌𝚒é𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚒𝚕𝚞𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚗 𝚖𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜 𝚌á𝚕𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚜 𝚢 𝚘𝚜𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚜. 𝚅𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚘, ¿𝚝𝚎 𝚊𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚜 𝚕𝚞𝚌𝚒é𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚜? ¿𝚂𝚊𝚋é𝚜 𝚚𝚞é 𝚏𝚒𝚗 𝚍𝚒𝚎𝚛𝚘𝚗?

𝙰𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚊 𝚝𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚓𝚘, 𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚍𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚊𝚍𝚊𝚜 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚐𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚜. 𝙰𝚕 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚍𝚎 𝚌𝚞𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚜, 𝚑𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚊𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚘 𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚘 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚊 𝚢 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚢𝚊 𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚓𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚊 𝚒𝚛 𝚊𝚜í 𝚝𝚊𝚕 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚎𝚜𝚝á. 𝚂𝚞𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚎𝚜 𝚎𝚕 𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚘𝚛 𝚍𝚎 otra 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚍𝚛í𝚊 𝚖𝚎𝚓𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚛 𝚎𝚗 el 𝚏𝚞𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚘. 𝚂𝚒 𝚗𝚘 𝚖𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚊𝚜í, 𝚗𝚘 𝚕𝚘 𝚑𝚊𝚐𝚘 𝚖á𝚜. 𝙻𝚊 𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚎𝚌é 𝚊 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚋𝚒𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚜, 𝚌𝚞𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚝𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚒ó 𝚎𝚕 𝚘𝚝𝚘ñ𝚘.

𝚃𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚓𝚘 𝚞𝚗 𝚊𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚣𝚘 𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚘, 𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚎𝚜𝚝á 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚜𝚒 𝚝𝚎 𝚕𝚘 𝚍𝚘𝚢 𝚍𝚎 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚍𝚊𝚍, 𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚘. 𝚂𝚘𝚗𝚛𝚎í 𝚞𝚗 𝚙𝚘𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚝𝚘, 𝚙𝚘𝚛 𝚏𝚊𝚟𝚘𝚛. 𝚈𝚊 𝚜é 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚎𝚕 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎 𝚎𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚘.

𝚄𝚗 𝚋𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚘,

𝙱𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚊.

𝙿𝙳: 𝙰 𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚒 𝚗𝚘𝚜 𝚟𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚜 𝚎𝚗 𝚎𝚕 𝙽𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚎 𝚎ste 2023, 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚘 𝚝𝚎 𝚙𝚒𝚍𝚘 𝚞𝚗 𝚏𝚊𝚟𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚍𝚘: 𝚋𝚊𝚓á 𝚞𝚗 𝚙𝚘𝚌𝚘 𝚎𝚕 𝚍𝚒𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚛. 𝚂𝚞𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚣á𝚝𝚎. 𝙿𝚘𝚛 𝚕𝚘 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚜 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚜 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚜 𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚊𝚗 𝚜𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚎𝚜𝚊 é𝚙𝚘𝚌𝚊 𝚍𝚞𝚕𝚌𝚎 𝚢 𝚜𝚘ñ𝚊𝚍𝚊 𝚎𝚗 𝚕𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚍𝚘𝚜, 𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚜𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚐𝚘𝚜 𝚋𝚊ñ𝚘𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚕𝚊 𝚙𝚒𝚎𝚕 𝚍𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚍𝚘𝚜 𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚞𝚐𝚞𝚎 𝚢 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚞é𝚜 𝚍𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚒𝚛 𝚕𝚊 𝚜𝚒𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊 𝚊 𝚕𝚊 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚋𝚛𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚞𝚗 𝚘𝚖𝚋ú.