𝚀𝚞𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚊 𝙼𝚊𝚛í𝚊 𝙴𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚊

𝚃𝚘𝚍𝚊𝚟í𝚊 𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚘 𝚎𝚕 𝚜𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚕 𝚝é 𝚍𝚎 𝚙𝚒𝚝𝚞𝚏𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚜 𝚊𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚊 𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚎 𝚎𝚗 𝚕𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚌í𝚊 𝚝𝚘𝚍𝚘 𝚖𝚞𝚢 𝚌á𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚘 𝚑𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚜 𝚎𝚕 𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚘. ¿𝙲ó𝚖𝚘 𝚗𝚘 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚛 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚊𝚛 𝚎𝚕 𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚘 𝚓𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚞𝚗𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚐𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚕𝚊𝚜 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜? 𝙳𝚒𝚜𝚏𝚛𝚞𝚝é 𝚎𝚕 𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚞𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚘. 𝙵𝚞𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚊 𝚕𝚘𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚝𝚎𝚗í𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚜. 𝙿𝚘𝚛 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚜, 𝚌𝚞𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚖𝚎𝚍í𝚊 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚛𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊 𝚢 𝚌𝚞𝚊𝚝𝚛𝚘, 𝚝𝚎 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚞𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚋𝚊 𝚎𝚗 𝚞𝚗 𝚝𝚘𝚌𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚝𝚎𝚗í𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚜 𝚎𝚗 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚊𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚜. 𝙿𝚊𝚜𝚊𝚋𝚊 𝚍𝚎𝚕 𝚕𝚊𝚍𝚘 𝙰 𝚊𝚕 𝙱 𝚜𝚒𝚗 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚜𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚎, 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚜 𝚊𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚕 𝚍í𝚊 𝚜𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚕 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚓, 𝚖𝚎𝚣𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚊𝚗é𝚌𝚍𝚘𝚝𝚊𝚜 𝚢 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚓𝚎𝚜 𝚎𝚗 𝚞𝚗 𝚟𝚊𝚒𝚟é𝚗 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚜 𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚟ó 𝚍𝚎 𝚕𝚊 𝚛𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚊 𝚋𝚊𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚊, 𝚊 𝙼𝚊𝚗𝚞𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚊 𝚎𝚗 𝙿𝚊𝚛í𝚜, 𝚊𝚕 𝚋𝚛𝚞𝚓𝚒𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝙶𝚞𝚕𝚞𝚋ú 𝚢 𝚊 𝚕𝚊 𝚟𝚊𝚌𝚊 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚒𝚘𝚜𝚊. 𝙷𝚊𝚋í𝚊 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚕𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚕 𝚍í𝚊.

𝙳𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚞é𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚞𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚎 𝚍𝚎 𝚕𝚊 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚊𝚌𝚊, 𝚌𝚊í 𝚎𝚗 𝚕𝚊 𝚌𝚞𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚣á𝚜 𝚗𝚘 𝚝𝚞𝚟𝚒𝚎𝚛𝚘𝚗 𝚕𝚊 𝚜𝚞𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚎 𝚍𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚘𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚎 𝚢 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚞é𝚜 𝚊𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚐𝚞é 𝚊 𝚖𝚒 𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚕𝚘𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚘, 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚑𝚊𝚐𝚘 (𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚒) 𝚜𝚒𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚛𝚎, 𝚕𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚕𝚊𝚋𝚛𝚊 𝚖á𝚐𝚒𝚌𝚊: 𝚝𝚘𝚍𝚊𝚟í𝚊. 𝙿𝚎𝚗𝚜é 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚜, 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚎𝚕 𝚘𝚝𝚘ñ𝚘 𝚎𝚜 𝚞𝚗𝚊 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚗𝚊 é𝚙𝚘𝚌𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚒𝚗𝚟𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚘𝚜 𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚝𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚘𝚣𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚢 𝚢𝚊 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚢 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚞𝚗 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚍𝚊𝚜 𝚎𝚗 𝚎𝚕 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛á𝚗 𝙴𝚗 𝚎𝚕 𝚙𝚊í𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚕 𝚗𝚘 𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚌𝚞𝚎𝚛𝚍𝚘, 𝙴𝚕 𝚛𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚘 𝚍𝚎𝚕 𝚛𝚎𝚟é𝚜, 𝙴𝚕 𝚃𝚠𝚒𝚜𝚝 𝚍𝚎𝚕 𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚘 𝙻𝚒𝚜𝚘 𝚢, 𝚙𝚘𝚛 𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚘, 𝚕𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚕𝚊 𝚟𝚊𝚌𝚞𝚗𝚊, 𝚕𝚊 𝚍𝚎𝚕 𝚓𝚊𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚍á, 𝚕𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚕𝚊 𝚌𝚒𝚐𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚊, 𝚕𝚊 𝚍𝚎𝚕 𝚙𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚍𝚘𝚛.

𝙰𝚞𝚗𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚜𝚝ó, 𝚎𝚗 𝚕𝚘𝚜 ú𝚕𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚘𝚜 𝚖𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚛é 𝚝𝚘𝚍𝚊 𝚖𝚒 𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚐í𝚊 𝚎𝚗 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚊𝚛 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊 𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚊. 𝙼𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚊𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚋𝚊 𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚊𝚛 𝚕𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚋𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚌𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚞𝚜 𝚙𝚊𝚕𝚊𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚜 𝚢 𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚍í𝚊𝚜. 𝙽𝚘 𝚝𝚎 𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚐𝚒𝚗á𝚜 𝚌𝚞á𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚎 𝚐𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛í𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚕𝚊 𝚙𝚛ó𝚡𝚒𝚖𝚊 𝚟𝚎𝚣 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚜 𝚟𝚎𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚜, 𝚖𝚎 𝚌𝚞𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚌ó𝚖𝚘 𝚕𝚊𝚜 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚋𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎, 𝚌ó𝚖𝚘 𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚐𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚊ñ𝚊𝚗. 𝙲𝚞𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚌𝚊í 𝚎𝚗 𝚕𝚊 𝚌𝚞𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚗𝚘 𝚝𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚐𝚞𝚗𝚝é 𝚕𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚖á𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚛í𝚊 𝚜𝚊𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝í 𝚙𝚎𝚜𝚊𝚍𝚊, 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚌𝚞𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚑𝚊𝚐𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚕 𝚕𝚊 𝚍𝚒𝚐𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒ó𝚗, 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚌𝚞𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚖𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚢 𝚌𝚞𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚍í 𝚞𝚗𝚊 𝚘𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚍 𝚟𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚘𝚜𝚊. ¿𝚂𝚊𝚋é𝚜 𝚊 𝚕𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚒𝚎𝚛𝚘? 𝚀𝚞𝚎 𝚎𝚜𝚝á𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚐𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚝𝚎 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊 𝚢 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚝𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚎𝚜 𝚢 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚌𝚞𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚛é𝚜 𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎 𝚌𝚞𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊 𝚊𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚘 𝚢𝚊 𝚎𝚜𝚝á 𝚕𝚎𝚓𝚘𝚜, 𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚎 𝚍𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚜, 𝚢 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚞, 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚞, 𝚢𝚊 𝚗𝚘 𝚟𝚞𝚎𝚕𝚟𝚎 𝚖á𝚜. 𝚀𝚞é 𝚍𝚒𝚏í𝚌𝚒𝚕 𝚎𝚜 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚊𝚛 𝚎𝚜𝚊𝚜 𝚙á𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚜, ¿𝚌𝚒𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚘?

𝚅𝚘𝚕𝚟𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚊𝚕 𝚙𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚘, 𝚝𝚎 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚋𝚘 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚗𝚒 𝚢𝚘 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚖𝚊 𝚝𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚘𝚌í𝚊 𝚕𝚘 𝚜𝚞𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎. 𝙷𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚞𝚗 𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚒𝚝𝚘, 𝚕𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚞𝚗𝚊 𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚊 𝚖𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛é 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚋𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚜. 𝙴𝚗 𝚎𝚕 𝚊𝚛𝚝í𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚘 𝚜𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚋𝚊 𝚞𝚗𝚊 𝚖𝚞𝚢 𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌í𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚊, 𝙳𝚊𝚒𝚕𝚊𝚗 𝙺𝚒𝚏𝚔𝚒, 𝚢 𝚖𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚍ó 𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚗𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚎𝚕 𝚗𝚘𝚖𝚋𝚛𝚎 𝚎𝚗 𝚕𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚋𝚎𝚣𝚊. 𝙲𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚗𝚘 𝚝𝚎𝚗í𝚊 𝚗𝚒 𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚕𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚊𝚗 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘, 𝚜𝚊𝚕í 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚊 𝚕𝚊 𝚋𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚌𝚊 𝚍𝚎𝚕 𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚘 𝚊 𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚒 𝚕𝚊 𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚊. 𝚃𝚞𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑í𝚜𝚒𝚖𝚊 𝚜𝚞𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚎. 𝙼𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚛é 𝚎𝚗 𝚕𝚘𝚜 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚘𝚜 𝚙á𝚛𝚛𝚊𝚏𝚘𝚜 𝚌𝚞𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚎𝚣á𝚜 𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚘𝚜 𝚕𝚊 𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚎𝚜𝚊 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚕𝚎 𝚊 𝚕𝚊 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚜𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚊 𝚊 𝚛𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚛 𝚞𝚗 𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚘 𝚢 𝚜𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚞𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚗 𝚞𝚗 𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎 𝚢 𝚞𝚗𝚊 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚝𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚐𝚊𝚍𝚊 𝚎𝚗 𝚕𝚊 𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚊 𝚙𝚒𝚍𝚒é𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚕𝚘 𝚌𝚞𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗 𝚞𝚗𝚘𝚜 𝚍í𝚊𝚜. 𝙴𝚕𝚕𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚊 𝚕𝚘𝚜 𝚙𝚊𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚕𝚊 𝚍𝚎𝚓𝚎𝚗 𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚘 𝚎𝚗 𝚎𝚕 𝚙𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘 𝚑𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚟𝚎𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚍𝚘𝚜 𝚚𝚞é 𝚑𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚗 é𝚕 𝚢 𝚎𝚕 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚘 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚛 𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚣𝚊 𝚜𝚞 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚐𝚞𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚘: “𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚘𝚜”. 𝚅𝚊𝚢𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚕𝚘 𝚎𝚜𝚝á𝚗, 𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝙳𝚊𝚒𝚕𝚊𝚗 𝙺𝚒𝚏𝚔𝚒 𝚜𝚎 𝚙𝚒𝚎𝚛𝚍𝚎 𝚢 𝚋𝚞𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚘 𝚜𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚟𝚒𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚎 𝚎𝚗 𝚞𝚗𝚊 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚕𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚜𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚜, 𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚊𝚓𝚊𝚍𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚜, 𝚐𝚘𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚍𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝚢 𝚌𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚝í𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚘𝚜. 𝙷𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚊 𝚞𝚗 𝚍𝚞𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚎 𝚜𝚎 𝚌𝚞𝚎𝚕𝚊 𝚙𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚑í. 𝚄𝚗𝚊 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚊.

𝙲𝚞𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚜𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚜𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚞𝚎𝚛𝚌𝚎𝚗 𝚕𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚜𝚊𝚜, 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚜𝚎 𝚢ó, 𝚌𝚞𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚘 𝚖á𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚕𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚟𝚊 𝚎𝚗 𝚞𝚗𝚊 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚝𝚊 𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚐𝚘 𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚛𝚞𝚍𝚘 𝚎𝚗 𝚟𝚎𝚣 𝚍𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚝𝚘𝚜; 𝚌𝚞𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚑𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚘 𝚍𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚊𝚍𝚘; 𝚌𝚞𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚗𝚘 𝚙𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚘 𝚕𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚐𝚘; 𝚌𝚞𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚗𝚘 𝚍𝚒𝚐𝚘 𝚕𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚘; 𝚌𝚞𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚖𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚟𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚎𝚕 𝚖𝚒𝚎𝚍𝚘, 𝚕𝚊 𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚍𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚛𝚎, 𝚕𝚊 𝚊𝚙𝚊𝚝í𝚊; 𝚌𝚞𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚢 𝚘𝚜𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚋𝚒𝚣𝚌𝚘𝚌𝚑𝚞𝚎𝚕𝚘 𝚘𝚕𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚍𝚘 𝚎𝚗 𝚞𝚗 𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚘 𝚊 𝟸𝟻𝟶 °𝙲 𝚢 𝚖𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚢 𝚌𝚞𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚐𝚘 𝚟𝚊 𝚖𝚊𝚕 𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚒𝚎𝚣𝚊 𝚊 𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚛 𝚛𝚊𝚛𝚘, 𝚖𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚣𝚘 𝚕𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚛 𝚛á𝚙𝚒𝚍𝚘 𝚢 𝚖𝚎 𝚟𝚘𝚢 𝚊 𝚕𝚊 𝚋𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚌𝚊 𝚊 𝚋𝚞𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚛 𝚊 𝙳𝚊𝚒𝚕𝚊𝚗 𝙺𝚒𝚏𝚔𝚒. 𝙼𝚎 𝚕𝚘 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚘 𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚊 𝚢 𝚕𝚘 𝚊𝚋𝚛𝚘 𝚎𝚗 𝚌𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚎𝚛 𝚙á𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚊 𝚢 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚞𝚋𝚛𝚘 (𝚘 𝚗𝚘) 𝚊𝚕𝚐𝚘 𝚗𝚞𝚎𝚟𝚘, 𝚢 𝚖𝚎 𝚛í𝚘 (𝚘 𝚗𝚘) 𝚍𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚐𝚞𝚗𝚊 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚊 𝚢 𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚘 (𝚜í 𝚘 𝚜í) 𝚎𝚗 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚊, 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚜𝚒 𝚟𝚘𝚜 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚖𝚊 𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚣𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚜. 𝚃𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚐𝚘 𝚖á𝚜, 𝚌𝚞𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚢 𝚎𝚗 𝚎𝚜𝚘𝚜 𝚍í𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚘 𝚘𝚝𝚛𝚘 𝚊𝚗𝚝í𝚍𝚘𝚝𝚘: 𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚘 𝚎𝚗 𝚋𝚞𝚌𝚕𝚎 𝙻𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚒ó𝚗 𝚍𝚎𝚕 𝚓𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚘, 𝚕𝚊 𝚍𝚎𝚓𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚎𝚗𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚊 𝚢 𝚘𝚝𝚛𝚊 𝚢 𝚘𝚝𝚛𝚊 𝚟𝚎𝚣, 𝚢 𝚕𝚊 𝚜𝚞𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚎 𝚘 𝚕𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎 𝚎𝚗 𝚟𝚘𝚣 𝚊𝚕𝚝𝚊, 𝚖𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚞𝚎𝚛𝚍𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚗 𝚛𝚊í𝚣.

𝙿𝚘𝚛 𝚎𝚜𝚘 𝚗𝚘 𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚛é 𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚛 𝚞𝚗𝚊 𝚎𝚡𝚌𝚞𝚜𝚊: 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚊𝚛é 𝚞𝚗𝚊 𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊, 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚍í 𝚞𝚗𝚊 𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚊 𝚢 𝚙𝚎𝚍í 𝚞𝚗 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚘: 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚕𝚊 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚟𝚞𝚎𝚕𝚟𝚎 𝚕𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎 𝚜𝚎 𝚖𝚞𝚕𝚝𝚒𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚢 𝚟𝚒𝚊𝚓𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚓𝚘𝚜 𝚜𝚒𝚗 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚛. 𝚀𝚞é 𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚐𝚞𝚎𝚜, 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚎 𝚒𝚕𝚞𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚕𝚘𝚜 𝚍í𝚊𝚜 𝚘𝚕𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚍𝚘𝚜 𝚕𝚘𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚜 𝚞𝚗 𝚛𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚕𝚞𝚣 𝚎𝚡𝚝𝚛𝚊. 𝙷𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚗 𝚏𝚊𝚕𝚝𝚊 𝚖á𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚊𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚎𝚜𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚟𝚘𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚝á𝚜, 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚋𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚜𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚟𝚘𝚜 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚋í𝚜. 𝚈 𝚊𝚞𝚗𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚜é 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚜é 𝚍𝚎 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚒, 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚛í𝚊 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚛𝚕𝚘. 𝙿𝚘𝚛𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚍𝚘𝚜 𝚙𝚘𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚜 𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚛 𝚞𝚗 𝚍𝚘𝚗 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚘𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚛, 𝚞𝚗 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚊𝚛, 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚜𝚘, 𝚐𝚊𝚗𝚊𝚜, 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚍, 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚟𝚘𝚜, 𝚖𝚒 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚍í𝚜𝚒𝚖𝚊 𝙼𝚊𝚛í𝚊 𝙴𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚊 𝚆𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚑, 𝚗𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚎. 𝚂𝚘𝚜, 𝚙𝚘𝚛 𝚜𝚒𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚛𝚎, ú𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚊.

𝙶𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚜 𝚙𝚘𝚛 𝚌𝚊𝚍𝚊 𝚞𝚗𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚎𝚜𝚘𝚜 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚘𝚜.

𝚄𝚗 𝚋𝚎𝚜𝚘,

𝑩𝒍𝒂𝒔𝒂