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𝚂𝚘𝚢 𝚕𝚊 𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚍𝚎𝚊 𝚕𝚊 𝚕𝚞𝚣 𝚍𝚎𝚕 𝚋𝚘𝚖𝚋𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚘, 𝚎𝚕 𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚌𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚊 𝚜𝚞 𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚕𝚎𝚓𝚘, 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚖í𝚗 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚊 𝚎𝚕 𝚌𝚞𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚘, 𝚕𝚘𝚜 𝚜𝚞𝚎ñ𝚘𝚜.

𝚂𝚘𝚢 𝚚𝚞𝚒é𝚗 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚊 𝚊 𝚕𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚊𝚜 𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚍𝚊𝚜,
𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚟𝚊𝚜 𝚢 𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚊𝚜, 𝚏𝚛𝚞𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚐𝚘, 𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚘.
𝚅𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚗𝚘 𝚕𝚎𝚝𝚊𝚕 𝚍𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚣𝚊𝚜, 𝚍𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚗 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚘.

𝚂𝚘𝚢 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚍𝚊, 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚘 𝚐𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚗 𝚕𝚘 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚜 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍𝚎𝚜.

𝚂𝚘𝚢 𝚌𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚎𝚛𝚊.
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