𝑬𝒏 𝒍𝒂 𝒇𝒂𝒍𝒕𝒂 𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒅𝒂, 𝒆𝒍 𝒂𝒃𝒊𝒔𝒎𝒐 𝒔𝒆 𝒂𝒃𝒓𝒆 𝒚𝒂,
𝒍𝒂 𝒗𝒊𝒅𝒂 𝒅𝒆𝒔𝒑𝒐𝒋𝒂𝒅𝒂 𝒅𝒆 𝒔𝒖 𝒍𝒖𝒛 𝒗𝒊𝒕𝒂𝒍.
𝑺𝒊 𝒏𝒐 𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒂́, 𝒆𝒍 𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒅𝒐 𝒉𝒖𝒚𝒆, 𝒍𝒂 𝒂𝒍𝒆𝒈𝒓𝜾́𝒂 𝒔𝒆 𝒗𝒂,
𝒚 𝒆𝒍 𝒂𝒍𝒎𝒂 𝒆𝒏 𝒍𝒂 𝒂𝒖𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒊𝒂 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒛𝒂 𝒂 𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒖𝒊𝒅𝒆𝒄𝒆𝒓.


𝑳𝒂 𝒂𝒏̃𝒐𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒛𝒂 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒆, 𝒖𝒏 𝒆𝒄𝒐 𝒔𝒊𝒏 𝒄𝒆𝒔𝒂𝒓,
𝒆𝒏 𝒄𝒂𝒅𝒂 𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒄𝒐́𝒏 𝒗𝒂𝒄𝜾́𝒐, 𝒔𝒖 𝒇𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒂𝒔𝒎𝒂 𝒉𝒂𝒃𝒊𝒕𝒂.
𝑬𝒍 𝒎𝒖𝒏𝒅𝒐 𝒔𝒆 𝒅𝒆𝒔𝒅𝒊𝒃𝒖𝒋𝒂, 𝒖𝒏 𝒍𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒛𝒐 𝒔𝒊𝒏 𝒑𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒂𝒓,
𝒖𝒏 𝒕𝒆𝒅𝒊𝒐 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒇𝒖𝒏𝒅𝒐 𝒒𝒖𝒆 𝒆𝒍 𝒆𝒔𝒑𝜾́𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒖 𝒅𝒆𝒃𝒊𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒂.


⸻ 𝑪𝒍𝒂𝒖𝒅𝒊𝒂 𝒅𝒆 𝑳𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒕