𝐷𝑖𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑜:
𝐵𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑖𝑜 𝐹𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑒́𝑠, 𝑁𝑢𝑒𝑣𝑎 𝑂𝑟𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑛𝑠. 𝑈́𝑙𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑎 𝑠𝑒𝑚𝑎𝑛𝑎 𝑑𝑒 𝑀𝑎𝑦𝑜.
𝑁𝑜 𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑢𝑒𝑟𝑑𝑜 ℎ𝑎𝑏𝑒𝑟 𝑒𝑠𝑐𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑜 𝑎𝑙𝑔𝑜, 𝑒𝑛 𝑎𝑙𝑔𝑢𝑛𝑎 𝑜𝑐𝑎𝑠𝑖𝑜́𝑛 𝑙𝑒 𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑔𝑢𝑛𝑡𝑒́ 𝑎 𝐿𝑜𝑢𝑖𝑠, 𝑒𝑙 𝑝𝑜𝑟𝑞𝑢𝑒́ 𝑙𝑒 𝑔𝑢𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑏𝑎 𝑒𝑠𝑐𝑟𝑖𝑏𝑖𝑟, 𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑜 𝑙𝑎 𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑝𝑢𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑎 𝑓𝑢𝑒 𝑎𝑚𝑏𝑖𝑔𝑢𝑎, 𝑒́𝑙 𝑙𝑜 ℎ𝑎𝑐𝜄́𝑎 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑎 𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑜𝑟𝑑𝑎𝑟 𝑠𝑢 𝑣𝑖𝑑𝑎 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑜 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑡𝑎𝑙, 𝑦 𝑦𝑜 𝑑𝑒𝑐𝑖𝑑𝜄́ ℎ𝑎𝑐𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑜 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑎 𝑑𝑒𝑗𝑎𝑟 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑖𝑎 𝑑𝑒 𝑞𝑢𝑒 𝑎𝑢́𝑛 𝑠𝑜𝑦 𝑙𝑜 𝑞𝑢𝑒 𝑠𝑜𝑙𝜄́𝑎 𝑠𝑒𝑟 𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑠 𝑑𝑒 𝑞𝑢𝑒 𝑡𝑜𝑑𝑜 𝑠𝑒 𝑓𝑢𝑒𝑟𝑎 𝑒𝑙 𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑎𝑗𝑜, 𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑜 𝑡𝑎𝑚𝑏𝑖𝑒́𝑛 𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑜 𝑞𝑢𝑒 𝑡𝑎𝑙 𝑣𝑒𝑧 𝑛𝑢𝑛𝑐𝑎 𝑐𝑎𝑚𝑏𝑖𝑎𝑚𝑜𝑠, 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑜𝑠 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑜 𝑝𝑒𝑞𝑢𝑒𝑛̃𝑎𝑠 𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑡𝑢𝑎𝑠 𝑒𝑛 𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑔𝑢𝑜𝑠 𝑐𝑒𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑜𝑠, 𝑖𝑛𝑐𝑎𝑝𝑎𝑐𝑒𝑠 𝑑𝑒 𝑐𝑎𝑚𝑏𝑖𝑎𝑟, 𝑞𝑢𝑒𝑑𝑎́𝑛𝑑𝑜𝑛𝑜𝑠 𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑎𝑑𝑜𝑠 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑎 𝑠𝑖𝑒𝑚𝑝𝑟𝑒 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑜 𝑙𝑜 𝑞𝑢𝑒 𝑓𝑢𝑖𝑚𝑜𝑠, 𝑎𝑛ℎ𝑒𝑙𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑜 𝑙𝑜 𝑞𝑢𝑒 𝑛𝑢𝑛𝑐𝑎 𝑠𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑚𝑜𝑠.
𝑌 𝑙𝑜 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑛𝑑𝜄́ 𝑐𝑢𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑜 𝑛𝑜 𝑡𝑢𝑣𝑒 𝑙𝑢𝑔𝑎𝑟 𝑎𝑙 𝑐𝑢𝑎𝑙 𝑣𝑜𝑙𝑣𝑒𝑟, 𝑚𝑎́𝑠 𝑞𝑢𝑒 𝑎 𝑙𝑎 𝑐𝑎𝑠𝑎 𝑞𝑢𝑒 𝑚𝑒 𝑣𝑖𝑜 𝑐𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑒𝑟, 𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑒 𝑙𝑢𝑔𝑎𝑟 𝑞𝑢𝑒 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑒 𝑡𝑎𝑛 𝑣𝑖𝑒𝑗𝑜 𝑦 𝑎𝑙 𝑚𝑖𝑠𝑚𝑜 𝑡𝑖𝑒𝑚𝑝𝑜 𝑡𝑎𝑛 𝑒𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑛𝑜, 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑜 𝑒𝑠𝑒 𝑝𝑎𝑝𝑒𝑙 𝑡𝑎𝑝𝑖𝑧 𝑞𝑢𝑒 𝑓𝑙𝑜𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑒 𝑒𝑛 𝑠𝑢𝑠 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑑𝑒𝑠.
𝐵𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑖𝑜 𝐹𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑒́𝑠, 𝑁𝑢𝑒𝑣𝑎 𝑂𝑟𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑛𝑠. 𝑈́𝑙𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑎 𝑠𝑒𝑚𝑎𝑛𝑎 𝑑𝑒 𝑀𝑎𝑦𝑜.
𝑁𝑜 𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑢𝑒𝑟𝑑𝑜 ℎ𝑎𝑏𝑒𝑟 𝑒𝑠𝑐𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑜 𝑎𝑙𝑔𝑜, 𝑒𝑛 𝑎𝑙𝑔𝑢𝑛𝑎 𝑜𝑐𝑎𝑠𝑖𝑜́𝑛 𝑙𝑒 𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑔𝑢𝑛𝑡𝑒́ 𝑎 𝐿𝑜𝑢𝑖𝑠, 𝑒𝑙 𝑝𝑜𝑟𝑞𝑢𝑒́ 𝑙𝑒 𝑔𝑢𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑏𝑎 𝑒𝑠𝑐𝑟𝑖𝑏𝑖𝑟, 𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑜 𝑙𝑎 𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑝𝑢𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑎 𝑓𝑢𝑒 𝑎𝑚𝑏𝑖𝑔𝑢𝑎, 𝑒́𝑙 𝑙𝑜 ℎ𝑎𝑐𝜄́𝑎 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑎 𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑜𝑟𝑑𝑎𝑟 𝑠𝑢 𝑣𝑖𝑑𝑎 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑜 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑡𝑎𝑙, 𝑦 𝑦𝑜 𝑑𝑒𝑐𝑖𝑑𝜄́ ℎ𝑎𝑐𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑜 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑎 𝑑𝑒𝑗𝑎𝑟 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑖𝑎 𝑑𝑒 𝑞𝑢𝑒 𝑎𝑢́𝑛 𝑠𝑜𝑦 𝑙𝑜 𝑞𝑢𝑒 𝑠𝑜𝑙𝜄́𝑎 𝑠𝑒𝑟 𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑠 𝑑𝑒 𝑞𝑢𝑒 𝑡𝑜𝑑𝑜 𝑠𝑒 𝑓𝑢𝑒𝑟𝑎 𝑒𝑙 𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑎𝑗𝑜, 𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑜 𝑡𝑎𝑚𝑏𝑖𝑒́𝑛 𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑜 𝑞𝑢𝑒 𝑡𝑎𝑙 𝑣𝑒𝑧 𝑛𝑢𝑛𝑐𝑎 𝑐𝑎𝑚𝑏𝑖𝑎𝑚𝑜𝑠, 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑜𝑠 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑜 𝑝𝑒𝑞𝑢𝑒𝑛̃𝑎𝑠 𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑡𝑢𝑎𝑠 𝑒𝑛 𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑔𝑢𝑜𝑠 𝑐𝑒𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑜𝑠, 𝑖𝑛𝑐𝑎𝑝𝑎𝑐𝑒𝑠 𝑑𝑒 𝑐𝑎𝑚𝑏𝑖𝑎𝑟, 𝑞𝑢𝑒𝑑𝑎́𝑛𝑑𝑜𝑛𝑜𝑠 𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑎𝑑𝑜𝑠 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑎 𝑠𝑖𝑒𝑚𝑝𝑟𝑒 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑜 𝑙𝑜 𝑞𝑢𝑒 𝑓𝑢𝑖𝑚𝑜𝑠, 𝑎𝑛ℎ𝑒𝑙𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑜 𝑙𝑜 𝑞𝑢𝑒 𝑛𝑢𝑛𝑐𝑎 𝑠𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑚𝑜𝑠.
𝑌 𝑙𝑜 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑛𝑑𝜄́ 𝑐𝑢𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑜 𝑛𝑜 𝑡𝑢𝑣𝑒 𝑙𝑢𝑔𝑎𝑟 𝑎𝑙 𝑐𝑢𝑎𝑙 𝑣𝑜𝑙𝑣𝑒𝑟, 𝑚𝑎́𝑠 𝑞𝑢𝑒 𝑎 𝑙𝑎 𝑐𝑎𝑠𝑎 𝑞𝑢𝑒 𝑚𝑒 𝑣𝑖𝑜 𝑐𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑒𝑟, 𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑒 𝑙𝑢𝑔𝑎𝑟 𝑞𝑢𝑒 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑒 𝑡𝑎𝑛 𝑣𝑖𝑒𝑗𝑜 𝑦 𝑎𝑙 𝑚𝑖𝑠𝑚𝑜 𝑡𝑖𝑒𝑚𝑝𝑜 𝑡𝑎𝑛 𝑒𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑛𝑜, 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑜 𝑒𝑠𝑒 𝑝𝑎𝑝𝑒𝑙 𝑡𝑎𝑝𝑖𝑧 𝑞𝑢𝑒 𝑓𝑙𝑜𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑒 𝑒𝑛 𝑠𝑢𝑠 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑑𝑒𝑠.
𝐷𝑖𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑜:
𝐵𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑖𝑜 𝐹𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑒́𝑠, 𝑁𝑢𝑒𝑣𝑎 𝑂𝑟𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑛𝑠. 𝑈́𝑙𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑎 𝑠𝑒𝑚𝑎𝑛𝑎 𝑑𝑒 𝑀𝑎𝑦𝑜.
𝑁𝑜 𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑢𝑒𝑟𝑑𝑜 ℎ𝑎𝑏𝑒𝑟 𝑒𝑠𝑐𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑜 𝑎𝑙𝑔𝑜, 𝑒𝑛 𝑎𝑙𝑔𝑢𝑛𝑎 𝑜𝑐𝑎𝑠𝑖𝑜́𝑛 𝑙𝑒 𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑔𝑢𝑛𝑡𝑒́ 𝑎 𝐿𝑜𝑢𝑖𝑠, 𝑒𝑙 𝑝𝑜𝑟𝑞𝑢𝑒́ 𝑙𝑒 𝑔𝑢𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑏𝑎 𝑒𝑠𝑐𝑟𝑖𝑏𝑖𝑟, 𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑜 𝑙𝑎 𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑝𝑢𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑎 𝑓𝑢𝑒 𝑎𝑚𝑏𝑖𝑔𝑢𝑎, 𝑒́𝑙 𝑙𝑜 ℎ𝑎𝑐𝜄́𝑎 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑎 𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑜𝑟𝑑𝑎𝑟 𝑠𝑢 𝑣𝑖𝑑𝑎 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑜 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑡𝑎𝑙, 𝑦 𝑦𝑜 𝑑𝑒𝑐𝑖𝑑𝜄́ ℎ𝑎𝑐𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑜 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑎 𝑑𝑒𝑗𝑎𝑟 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑖𝑎 𝑑𝑒 𝑞𝑢𝑒 𝑎𝑢́𝑛 𝑠𝑜𝑦 𝑙𝑜 𝑞𝑢𝑒 𝑠𝑜𝑙𝜄́𝑎 𝑠𝑒𝑟 𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑠 𝑑𝑒 𝑞𝑢𝑒 𝑡𝑜𝑑𝑜 𝑠𝑒 𝑓𝑢𝑒𝑟𝑎 𝑒𝑙 𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑎𝑗𝑜, 𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑜 𝑡𝑎𝑚𝑏𝑖𝑒́𝑛 𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑜 𝑞𝑢𝑒 𝑡𝑎𝑙 𝑣𝑒𝑧 𝑛𝑢𝑛𝑐𝑎 𝑐𝑎𝑚𝑏𝑖𝑎𝑚𝑜𝑠, 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑜𝑠 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑜 𝑝𝑒𝑞𝑢𝑒𝑛̃𝑎𝑠 𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑡𝑢𝑎𝑠 𝑒𝑛 𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑔𝑢𝑜𝑠 𝑐𝑒𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑜𝑠, 𝑖𝑛𝑐𝑎𝑝𝑎𝑐𝑒𝑠 𝑑𝑒 𝑐𝑎𝑚𝑏𝑖𝑎𝑟, 𝑞𝑢𝑒𝑑𝑎́𝑛𝑑𝑜𝑛𝑜𝑠 𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑎𝑑𝑜𝑠 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑎 𝑠𝑖𝑒𝑚𝑝𝑟𝑒 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑜 𝑙𝑜 𝑞𝑢𝑒 𝑓𝑢𝑖𝑚𝑜𝑠, 𝑎𝑛ℎ𝑒𝑙𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑜 𝑙𝑜 𝑞𝑢𝑒 𝑛𝑢𝑛𝑐𝑎 𝑠𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑚𝑜𝑠.
𝑌 𝑙𝑜 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑛𝑑𝜄́ 𝑐𝑢𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑜 𝑛𝑜 𝑡𝑢𝑣𝑒 𝑙𝑢𝑔𝑎𝑟 𝑎𝑙 𝑐𝑢𝑎𝑙 𝑣𝑜𝑙𝑣𝑒𝑟, 𝑚𝑎́𝑠 𝑞𝑢𝑒 𝑎 𝑙𝑎 𝑐𝑎𝑠𝑎 𝑞𝑢𝑒 𝑚𝑒 𝑣𝑖𝑜 𝑐𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑒𝑟, 𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑒 𝑙𝑢𝑔𝑎𝑟 𝑞𝑢𝑒 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑒 𝑡𝑎𝑛 𝑣𝑖𝑒𝑗𝑜 𝑦 𝑎𝑙 𝑚𝑖𝑠𝑚𝑜 𝑡𝑖𝑒𝑚𝑝𝑜 𝑡𝑎𝑛 𝑒𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑛𝑜, 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑜 𝑒𝑠𝑒 𝑝𝑎𝑝𝑒𝑙 𝑡𝑎𝑝𝑖𝑧 𝑞𝑢𝑒 𝑓𝑙𝑜𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑒 𝑒𝑛 𝑠𝑢𝑠 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑑𝑒𝑠.
