EL HAMBRE DEL ABISMO

El deseo no pregunta.

Nace en la oscuridad,
como magma bajo la piedra,
presionando las entrañas de la tierra
hasta encontrar una fisura
por donde pueda incendiar el mundo.

Desear es cargar
con un hambre sin medida.

El cuerpo llama.
La mente inventa razones.
La voluntad permanece.

Y cuanto más se posee,
más profundo se vuelve el vacío.

La piedra conoce ese secreto.

No desea ser montaña.
No desea ser cristal.
No desea el brillo.

Permanece.

El ser humano, en cambio, desea.

Desea lo que no posee,
después desea conservar lo que posee,
y cuando lo consigue,
el deseo cambia de nombre
y busca otra ausencia.

Así cava la voluntad.

Cava como el agua sobre el mineral,
como el tiempo sobre el granito,
como una hoja invisible
abriendo el corazón de la materia.

Y debajo de cada deseo
existe otro.

Más profundo.

Más hambriento.

Hasta que el deseo ya no quiere un cuerpo,
un beso,
una conquista
ni nada que pueda ser nombrado.

Quiere lo imposible.

Es en ese instante
cuando aparece el abismo.

No como caída.

Como espejo.

Allí, frente a la profundidad,
el ser descubre la verdad más incómoda:

no es el deseo el que busca aquello que ama.

Es la propia voluntad
la que busca seguir deseando.

Y nosotros,
hechos de carne, sal, hierro y memoria,
llamamos a esa hambre
vida.

J. Kasra
Todos los derechos reservados.

 

THE FISSURES OF SILENCE

Silence is not emptiness.

It is a sealed stone
holding within itself
the noise of everything
that found no way out.

The secret goes deeper.

It does not remain only in the mouth.
It descends into the blood,
settles into the bones,
takes root where the light
cannot reach.

Silence can be peace.

A secret is a scar.

One disappears when the word is born.
The other survives
even after it has been revealed.

There are silences that set us free.

And there are secrets that rot
in the darkness of the flesh,
feeding on the fear
of being spoken.

To keep silent
is to close a door.

To keep a secret
is to live behind it.

Deep within the self,
every buried truth
continues to breathe.

And some truths
do not need a voice.

Time is enough.

It always finds
the fissures
through which the secret
begins to bleed.

J. Kasra
All rights reserved.

 

THE NIGHT KNOWS

The night knows.

It knows what the day pretends not to have heard.

Windows close. The last streetlight fades a face reflected in the glass. Something remains lit. It is not the body. It is the thoughts that spent the entire day crouched in the corner, waiting for the house to empty.

That is when the writer approaches the page. Barefoot. His hands still stained by everything he carried throughout the day.

He does not arrive with answers. He arrives hungry.

During the day, we lie well. We hide fear behind crowded schedules, sadness behind elevator smiles, desire behind polite silence. We wear names, titles, surnames. We talk so much that we forget the sound of our own voice when there is no audience.

The night tears those clothes away.

Certain words are born only after midnight, when the body no longer has the strength to keep lying.

Darkness does not ask permission. It explains nothing. It stays. It waits.

And standing before it, the writer understands:

Shadow is not the enemy.

Some shadows guard what he has not yet found the courage to scream. Others hold memories that should have rotted long ago but refused to die. There is a shadow that bites. There is also a shadow that rocks you in its arms.

And then there is the shadow that picks up the pen.

The tip tears across the paper—the only sound in the entire house.

One word. Then another, dirtier than the first.

Silence gains flesh, bone, scent.

Writing is forcing into the world what has spent an entire lifetime without a mouth.

The writer invents nothing at three in the morning. He excavates.

It was already there, buried shallow, waiting for a night deep enough to be dug out with bare hands.

A blank page was never empty. It is crowded. With questions he swallowed in front of others. With ghosts he swore he had killed. With the part of himself that wears a muzzle and a collar during the day.

And there is something indecent about this encounter.

Once the pen touches the paper, there is no pretending anymore that he did not know.

The word exposes. The sentence betrays. The comma is a confession.

Writing is the most elegant way of tearing your own throat open in public.

The night knows the books that died halfway through. The letters torn apart before they were ever sealed. The desires that survived only disguised as metaphor. The three in the morning when he almost told the whole truth, then erased everything before sunrise like a thief.

Between the writer and the night, there is a blood pact neither of them ever signed:

she lends him silence;

he gives it back in flesh made of words.

she hides the shadow;

he has the courage to baptize it with his own name.

Dawn comes. The page remains. The night retreats behind the first light, as if it had never been there.

But something has changed hands forever.

A written shadow no longer belongs only to the darkness. It belongs to memory. It belongs to the word. It belongs to whoever had the stomach to descend that far and return alive.

And every time someone opens a blank page in the middle of the night, the night stays close.

Watching. Waiting. Knowing.

The night knows what we write when we swear no one is watching.

J. Kasra — All Rights Reserved 

 

GARDENERS OF TIME

We are gardeners of time,
reapers of expectations.

Every morning,
the world returns to the soil
the weeds we pulled out yesterday.

There are roots that do not die.

They only wait.

They grow in the darkness,
fed by fear,
by memory,
by the wounds we buried without laying them to rest,
by the lies that continue to breathe,
by the disappointments we learned to carry
as if they were part of the body.

There are pains that do not disappear.

They descend.

They find a place inside us
and build their roots there.

A word.

An abandonment.

A betrayal.

A broken promise.

A love that ended
without ever finding an ending.

And we keep cultivating.

Man tends his own garden
while believing he is merely surviving.

He prunes what wounds him,
buries what has begun to rot,
waters what still waits
and protects small flowers
against the violence of the seasons.

Then he looks upon the scars
and calls maturity
what time has left behind.

But time does not cultivate.

Time consumes.

It passes over petals
with the indifference of someone walking over corpses.

No season remains.

No flower makes an agreement with the night.

No root is deep enough
to escape the blade of days.

And still, we plant.

We plant after betrayal.

After abandonment.

After the lie.

After discovering
that some people loved
only what they could take from us.

We plant upon the ruins
of the things we swore would last forever.

And we call hope
what is often nothing more
than the inability to accept loss.

Beneath every flower
there is something buried.

A promise that rotted away.

A name we no longer speak.

A dream that died before it was born.

A version of ourselves
that remained behind
the moment we understood
that some doors do not close.

They expel us.

Every hope carries
a hidden blade.

Every desire opens in the chest
a place for loss.

The more we love,
the deeper we dig.

The more we hope,
the higher we build
the place from which we will fall.

And we continue.

We pull out the weeds
as if trying to tear from ourselves
our own nature.

But they return.

They always return.

Some roots belong
to what we are.

The resentment we nurture.

The guilt we conceal.

The anger we pretend to have forgotten.

The need to be recognized
by those who never truly saw us.

Everything we refuse to face
finds fertile soil in memory.

And grows.

Then we reap.

We reap the lies
we tell ourselves.

The expectations
we turn into chains.

The promises
we continue waiting for
from those who have already left.

The wounds
we have fed for years
as if suffering could
resurrect the past.

Some roots need to die.

Some memories need to lose
the nourishment of our presence.

Some people need to remain
where time left them.

Not every absence is emptiness.

Not every ending is loss.

Not every scar asks to be healed.

Some wounds never close.

They become part of the architecture
of who we have survived.

The garden grows over our ruins.

And what we call the future
is only the past
being born with another face.

We repeat gestures.

We repeat desires.

We repeat mistakes.

We repeat loves.

We change the faces.

We change the names.

We change the seasons.

The roots remain.

That is the cruelty:

we spend our lives trying to escape
what wounded us

and, without realizing it,
we build our identity
around the wound.

The garden matures
when we learn to distinguish
the flower from what merely
feeds upon it.

Then we cut.

Without hatred.

Without nostalgia.

Without asking the past for permission.

We cut until we bleed.

Some pruning
must reach the root.

Time moves on.

It does not comfort.

It does not forgive.

It does not return.

It simply passes.

And gathers the harvest.

Flowers, failures,
loves, ambitions,
lies, losses,
desires and ruins.

Everything ends between its hands.

In the end,

we do not own the garden.

We are the soil.

Time plants within us
without asking permission
and harvests without seeking consent.

We bloom knowing
that every flower
carries its own ruin.

And when the night ends,

we return to the earth.

With wounded hands,
a memory filled with the dead
and a new seed between our fingers.

We plant again.

Even knowing.

Even after everything.

And then we understand, too late:

we did not spend our lives cultivating a garden.

We spent our lives choosing
what we would have to lose.

---

J. Kasra
All rights reserved.

 

THE GEOLOGY OF WHAT WE ARE

We are born flesh
and time turns us to stone.

We grow as angels
and learn the weight of falling,
keeping within hidden veins
an essence of life
that still cries out
while the world does not listen.

Far from the surface,
we plunge into the abyss of memories,
where small joys
cut like ancient blades
and lash us with certainties
we do not want to see.

A human desert
where everything passes,
everything is far too brief,
and yet,
everything leaves its mark.

Glaring differences
tear through the same silence.

And what remains?

What are we
after the crossing
between reason and emotion,
between the heat that sets us ablaze
and the cold that turns us to stone?

What do we become
when the stone can no longer conceal
the flesh that still pulses?

How long
will what we are
continue trying to be born
from what we have learned to become?

J. KASRA — All rights reserved

𝑳𝑰𝑻𝑬𝑹𝑨𝑻𝑼𝑹𝑬 𝑫𝑶𝑬𝑺 𝑵𝑶𝑻 𝑨𝑺𝑲 𝑭𝑶𝑹 𝑷𝑬𝑹𝑴𝑰𝑺𝑺𝑰𝑶𝑵

𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒊𝒔 𝒂𝒏 𝒆𝒍𝒆𝒈𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒄𝒓𝒖𝒆𝒍𝒕𝒚 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒓𝒚𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒐 𝒑𝒖𝒕 𝒇𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒃𝒐𝒓𝒏 𝒕𝒐 𝒄𝒓𝒐𝒔𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎.

𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒊𝒔 𝒂 𝒄𝒖𝒓𝒊𝒐𝒖𝒔 𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒐𝒇 𝒉𝒖𝒎𝒂𝒏 𝒃𝒆𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒘𝒉𝒐 𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒂𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒔 𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒂 𝒓𝒖𝒍𝒆𝒓 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒓 𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒃𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒎𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒖𝒓𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒍𝒅.

𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅 𝒂 𝒑𝒐𝒆𝒎, 𝒂 𝒕𝒆𝒙𝒕, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒌 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒓𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒕 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒎. 𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒂 𝒎𝒆𝒕𝒂𝒑𝒉𝒐𝒓 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒂𝒔𝒌 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒊𝒕 𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒆𝒊𝒗𝒆𝒅 𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒛𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏. 𝑭𝒂𝒄𝒆𝒅 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒂 𝒅𝒊𝒇𝒇𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒗𝒐𝒊𝒄𝒆, 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒊𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒅𝒊𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒚 𝒔𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒄𝒉 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒆𝒙𝒊𝒕.

𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒇𝒖𝒔𝒆 𝒕𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒕𝒓𝒖𝒕𝒉.

𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒇𝒖𝒔𝒆 𝒓𝒖𝒍𝒆𝒔 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒆.

𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒇𝒖𝒔𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒓 𝒐𝒘𝒏 𝒍𝒊𝒎𝒊𝒕𝒔 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒍𝒊𝒎𝒊𝒕𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒂𝒓𝒕.

𝑳𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒏𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒂 𝒘𝒂𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒓𝒐𝒐𝒎 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒆𝒙𝒑𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒊𝒕 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒂𝒎𝒆 𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏.

𝑰𝒕 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒃𝒐𝒓𝒏 𝒖𝒏𝒕𝒂𝒎𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒆.

𝑩𝒆𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒖𝒂𝒍𝒔, 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅. 𝑩𝒆𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒂𝒄𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒎𝒊𝒆𝒔, 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒘𝒐𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓. 𝑩𝒆𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒔, 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒂 𝒇𝒊𝒓𝒆, 𝒕𝒓𝒚𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒐 𝒏𝒂𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒏𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕.

𝑨𝒍𝒍 𝒕𝒓𝒖𝒆 𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒆 𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒎 𝒐𝒇 𝒅𝒊𝒔𝒐𝒃𝒆𝒅𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆.

𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒊𝒔 𝒑𝒐𝒆𝒕𝒓𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒃𝒍𝒆𝒆𝒅𝒔. 𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒊𝒔 𝒑𝒐𝒆𝒕𝒓𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒔. 𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒊𝒔 𝒑𝒐𝒆𝒕𝒓𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒃𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒔. 𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒊𝒔 𝒑𝒐𝒆𝒕𝒓𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒇𝒆𝒆𝒍𝒔 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒂 𝒑𝒓𝒂𝒚𝒆𝒓. 𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒊𝒔 𝒑𝒐𝒆𝒕𝒓𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒇𝒆𝒆𝒍𝒔 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒃𝒍𝒂𝒔𝒑𝒉𝒆𝒎𝒚.

𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒊𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒅𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒃𝒔.

𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒊𝒔 𝒖𝒔𝒖𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒎𝒐𝒔𝒕 𝒏𝒆𝒄𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒂𝒓𝒚.

𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒃𝒍𝒆𝒎 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒏𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒆 𝒉𝒂𝒔 𝒓𝒖𝒍𝒆𝒔.

𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒃𝒍𝒆𝒎 𝒃𝒆𝒈𝒊𝒏𝒔 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒈𝒊𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒌𝒆𝒚𝒔 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒆𝒎𝒑𝒍𝒆.

𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒍𝒆 𝒑𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒎, 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒈𝒖𝒂𝒓𝒅𝒊𝒂𝒏𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆, 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒊𝒏𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒎𝒆𝒕𝒂𝒑𝒉𝒐𝒓, 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒊𝒎𝒂𝒈𝒊𝒏𝒂𝒓𝒚 𝒐𝒘𝒏𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒎𝒂𝒚 𝒐𝒓 𝒎𝒂𝒚 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒃𝒆 𝒄𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒆𝒅 𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒆.

𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒃𝒖𝒊𝒍𝒅 𝒇𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅.

𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒑𝒖𝒕 𝒖𝒑 𝒔𝒊𝒈𝒏𝒔.

𝑭𝒐𝒓𝒃𝒊𝒅𝒅𝒆𝒏 𝒕𝒐 𝒄𝒓𝒐𝒔𝒔.
𝑭𝒐𝒓𝒃𝒊𝒅𝒅𝒆𝒏 𝒕𝒐 𝒅𝒂𝒓𝒆.
𝑭𝒐𝒓𝒃𝒊𝒅𝒅𝒆𝒏 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒆 𝒅𝒊𝒇𝒇𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒏𝒕.

𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒄𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒊𝒕 𝒄𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒂.

𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒆 𝒊𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒂 𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒑𝒐𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒉𝒆𝒅 𝒖𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒍 𝒊𝒕 𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒆𝒔 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒊𝒕𝒔 𝒆𝒅𝒈𝒆𝒔.

𝑰𝒕 𝒊𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒆𝒅𝒈𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒄𝒖𝒕𝒔.

𝑳𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒆 𝒂𝒍𝒔𝒐 𝒍𝒊𝒗𝒆𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒔𝒕.

𝑭𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒃𝒆𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒚 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒈𝒓𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒔𝒒𝒖𝒆. 𝑭𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒂𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒇𝒂𝒏𝒆. 𝑭𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒔𝒊𝒍𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒎. 𝑭𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒄𝒍𝒂𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒄𝒂𝒍 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒂𝒃𝒔𝒖𝒓𝒅. 𝑭𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒅𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒄𝒂𝒄𝒚 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒗𝒊𝒐𝒍𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒓𝒖𝒕𝒉.

𝑻𝒉𝒐𝒔𝒆 𝒘𝒉𝒐 𝒅𝒆𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒆 𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒆𝒎𝒃𝒍𝒆 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒂𝒍𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒚 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒅𝒆𝒇𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒆.

𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒅𝒆𝒇𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒓 𝒐𝒘𝒏 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒕.

𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒊𝒔 𝒂 𝒃𝒓𝒖𝒕𝒂𝒍 𝒅𝒊𝒇𝒇𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒕𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒗𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂 𝒓𝒖𝒍𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒎𝒆𝒅𝒊𝒐𝒄𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒚.

𝑹𝒖𝒍𝒆𝒔 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒐𝒓𝒈𝒂𝒏𝒊𝒛𝒆 𝒂 𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒔𝒆.

𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒄𝒂𝒏𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒅𝒆𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒊𝒛𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒌𝒚.

𝑨 𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒓𝒚 𝒈𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒑 𝒎𝒂𝒚 𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒉 𝒊𝒕𝒔 𝒄𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒂. 𝑨 𝒎𝒂𝒈𝒂𝒛𝒊𝒏𝒆 𝒎𝒂𝒚 𝒄𝒉𝒐𝒐𝒔𝒆 𝒊𝒕𝒔 𝒆𝒅𝒊𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒂𝒍 𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒆. 𝑨 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒖𝒏𝒊𝒕𝒚 𝒎𝒂𝒚 𝒅𝒆𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒆 𝒊𝒕𝒔 𝒂𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒕𝒊𝒄.

𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒅𝒆𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒗𝒆𝒔 𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒄𝒕.

𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝒏𝒐 𝒓𝒆𝒈𝒖𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒔𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒎𝒔 𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒇𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒐 𝒖𝒏𝒊𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒂𝒍 𝒕𝒓𝒖𝒕𝒉.

𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒐𝒐𝒓 𝒐𝒇 𝒂 𝒈𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒑 𝒎𝒂𝒚 𝒃𝒆 𝒄𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒆𝒅.

𝑳𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒆 𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒔 𝒐𝒖𝒕𝒔𝒊𝒅𝒆.

𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒊𝒕 𝒌𝒆𝒆𝒑𝒔 𝒃𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈.

𝑰𝒕 𝒌𝒆𝒆𝒑𝒔 𝒘𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈.

𝑰𝒕 𝒌𝒆𝒆𝒑𝒔 𝒃𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒇𝒓𝒂𝒎𝒆𝒔.

𝑰𝒕 𝒌𝒆𝒆𝒑𝒔 𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝒘𝒉𝒐 𝒅𝒐 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒏𝒆𝒆𝒅 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒎𝒊𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒕𝒐 𝒇𝒆𝒆𝒍.

𝑨𝒓𝒕 𝒅𝒐𝒆𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒂𝒔𝒌 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒖𝒏𝒂𝒏𝒊𝒎𝒊𝒕𝒚.

𝑰𝒕 𝒂𝒔𝒌𝒔 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆.

𝑰𝒕 𝒂𝒔𝒌𝒔 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒓𝒊𝒔𝒌.

𝑰𝒕 𝒂𝒔𝒌𝒔 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒂 𝒗𝒐𝒊𝒄𝒆 𝒄𝒂𝒑𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒊𝒕𝒔 𝒈𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒔𝒂𝒚𝒔:

“𝑻𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒊𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒆.”

𝑬𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒆𝒓𝒂 𝒉𝒂𝒔 𝒊𝒕𝒔 𝒐𝒘𝒏 𝒐𝒘𝒏𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒄𝒆𝒓𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒚.

𝑴𝒆𝒏 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒘𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒏 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒗𝒊𝒏𝒄𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒂𝒍 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒐𝒇 𝒂𝒓𝒕.

𝑼𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒍 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒔 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒂 𝒏𝒆𝒘 𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒇𝒕𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒓 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒊𝒓.

𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒊𝒔 𝒉𝒐𝒘 𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒆 𝒃𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒔:

𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒅𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒃𝒔.

𝑺𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒃𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒌𝒔.

𝑺𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒊𝒏𝒗𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔.

𝑺𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒊𝒔 𝒓𝒆𝒋𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒆𝒅.

𝑺𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒖𝒆𝒔.

𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒚𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒔 𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒓, 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒄𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒆𝒅 𝒆𝒙𝒄𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒆𝒊𝒗𝒆𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒏𝒂𝒎𝒆:

𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒖𝒓𝒔𝒐𝒓.

𝑳𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒓𝒚 𝒉𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒚 𝒊𝒔 𝒇𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒆𝒅 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒗𝒐𝒊𝒄𝒆𝒔 𝒐𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒊𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒅 𝒊𝒏𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒒𝒖𝒂𝒕𝒆, 𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆, 𝒆𝒙𝒄𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒗𝒆, 𝒊𝒏𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒉𝒆𝒏𝒔𝒊𝒃𝒍𝒆, 𝒐𝒓 𝒅𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒔.

𝑨𝒓𝒕 𝒖𝒔𝒖𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒚 𝒂𝒈𝒆𝒔 𝒃𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒏 𝒊𝒕𝒔 𝒄𝒆𝒏𝒔𝒐𝒓𝒔.

𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒆, 𝒍𝒆𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒃𝒆 𝒓𝒖𝒍𝒆𝒔.

𝑳𝒆𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒃𝒆 𝒔𝒄𝒉𝒐𝒐𝒍𝒔.

𝑳𝒆𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒃𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒚𝒍𝒆𝒔.

𝑳𝒆𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒃𝒆 𝒈𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒑𝒔.

𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝒍𝒆𝒕 𝒏𝒐 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒇𝒖𝒔𝒆 𝒂 𝒓𝒐𝒐𝒎 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒖𝒏𝒊𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒆.

𝑳𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒆 𝒊𝒔 𝒇𝒂𝒓 𝒕𝒐𝒐 𝒗𝒂𝒔𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒇𝒊𝒕 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒐𝒑𝒊𝒏𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒐𝒇 𝒘𝒉𝒐𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒓𝒐𝒍𝒔 𝒂 𝒅𝒐𝒐𝒓.

𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒈𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒓𝒚 𝒔𝒄𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒂𝒍 𝒊𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒘𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂𝒈𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒔𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒓𝒖𝒍𝒆𝒔.

𝑰𝒕 𝒊𝒔 𝒘𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒂𝒈𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒂𝒚 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒏𝒐 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒆𝒙𝒑𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒆𝒅.

𝑻𝒓𝒖𝒆 𝒇𝒓𝒆𝒆𝒅𝒐𝒎 𝒅𝒐𝒆𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒍𝒊𝒆 𝒊𝒏 𝒅𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒐𝒚𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅𝒂𝒓𝒚.

𝑰𝒕 𝒍𝒊𝒆𝒔 𝒊𝒏 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒉𝒐𝒘 𝒕𝒐 𝒄𝒓𝒐𝒔𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒂𝒑𝒐𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒊𝒛𝒊𝒏𝒈.

𝑳𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒆 𝒅𝒐𝒆𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒏𝒆𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒆 𝒅𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒄𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒅.

𝑰𝒕 𝒏𝒆𝒆𝒅𝒔 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒆 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅.

𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒂 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒗𝒐𝒌𝒆𝒔 𝒇𝒆𝒂𝒓, 𝒊𝒓𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏, 𝒐𝒓 𝒅𝒊𝒔𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒕 𝒊𝒏 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒘𝒉𝒐 𝒃𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒌𝒏𝒆𝒘 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒓𝒔, 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒃𝒍𝒆𝒎 𝒎𝒂𝒚 𝒍𝒊𝒆 𝒍𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒏 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒎𝒊𝒓𝒓𝒐𝒓.

𝑳𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒆 𝒅𝒐𝒆𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒆𝒙𝒊𝒔𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒇𝒊𝒓𝒎 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒘𝒆 𝒂𝒍𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒚 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘.

𝑰𝒕 𝒆𝒙𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒔 𝒕𝒐 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒆 𝒂 𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒄𝒆𝒓𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒚 𝒐𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒐𝒅.

𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒄𝒆𝒓𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒚 𝒇𝒆𝒆𝒍𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒆𝒅,

𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝒃𝒆𝒈𝒊𝒏𝒔.

𝑾𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒅𝒊𝒔𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒕 𝒊𝒔 𝒃𝒐𝒓𝒏,

𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒆 𝒃𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒔.

𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒅𝒆𝒄𝒍𝒂𝒓𝒆𝒔:

“𝑻𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒄𝒂𝒏𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒃𝒆 𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒆.”

𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒔𝒎𝒊𝒍𝒆,

𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒏 𝒂𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒅𝒐𝒐𝒓

𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓.

𝑱. 𝑲𝒂𝒔𝒓𝒂 — 𝑨𝒍𝒍 𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒔 𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒗𝒆𝒅.

 

𝑽𝑰𝑨𝑱𝑬𝑹𝑶𝑺 𝑫𝑬𝑳 𝑻𝑰𝑬𝑴𝑷𝑶

𝑺𝒐𝒎𝒐𝒔 𝒗𝒊𝒂𝒋𝒆𝒓𝒐𝒔 𝒅𝒆𝒍 𝒕𝒊𝒆𝒎𝒑𝒐,
𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕í𝒄𝒖𝒍𝒂𝒔 𝒅𝒆 𝒖𝒏𝒂 𝒎𝒊𝒔𝒎𝒂 𝒏𝒐𝒄𝒉𝒆
𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒛𝒂𝒅𝒂𝒔 𝒆𝒏 𝒅𝒊𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒄𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒆𝒔 𝒐𝒑𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒔,
𝒍𝒍𝒆𝒗𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒐 𝒆𝒏 𝒍𝒂 𝒔𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒓𝒆
𝒍𝒂 𝒎𝒆𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒂 𝒅𝒆 𝒖𝒏 𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒖𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒓𝒐
𝒒𝒖𝒆 𝒂ú𝒏 𝒏𝒐 𝒉𝒂 𝒔𝒖𝒄𝒆𝒅𝒊𝒅𝒐.

𝑯𝒂𝒚 𝒂𝒍𝒎𝒂𝒔 𝒒𝒖𝒆 𝒏𝒐 𝒍𝒍𝒆𝒈𝒂𝒏.
𝑫𝒆𝒔𝒑𝒊𝒆𝒓𝒕𝒂𝒏.

𝑬𝒏𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒏 𝒆𝒏 𝒍𝒂 𝒗𝒊𝒅𝒂
𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒐 𝒖𝒏 𝒆𝒄𝒍𝒊𝒑𝒔𝒆 𝒅𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒓𝒐 𝒅𝒆𝒍 𝒑𝒆𝒄𝒉𝒐,
𝒂𝒑𝒂𝒈𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒐 𝒑𝒐𝒓 𝒖𝒏 𝒊𝒏𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒆
𝒕𝒐𝒅𝒐 𝒂𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒐 𝒒𝒖𝒆 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒆𝒄í𝒂 𝒅𝒆𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒗𝒐.

𝑬𝒍 𝒖𝒏𝒊𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒐 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒐𝒄𝒆 𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒔 𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒖𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒓𝒐𝒔.

𝑳𝒐𝒔 𝒈𝒖𝒂𝒓𝒅𝒂 𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒓𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒆𝒔,
𝒆𝒏 𝒍𝒐𝒔 𝒎á𝒓𝒈𝒆𝒏𝒆𝒔 𝒅𝒆𝒍 𝒊𝒏𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒊𝒕𝒐,
𝒅𝒐𝒏𝒅𝒆 𝒍𝒂 𝒍𝒖𝒛 𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒅𝒂 𝒔𝒊𝒈𝒍𝒐𝒔
𝒆𝒏 𝒓𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒍𝒂𝒓
𝒒𝒖𝒆 𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒖𝒗𝒐 𝒂𝒍𝒍í.

𝑯𝒂𝒚 𝒖𝒏𝒂 𝒅𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒊𝒂 𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒓𝒆 𝒅𝒐𝒔 𝒂𝒍𝒎𝒂𝒔
𝒒𝒖𝒆 𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈ú𝒏 𝒎𝒂𝒑𝒂 𝒂𝒍𝒄𝒂𝒏𝒛𝒂.

𝒀 𝒆𝒙𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒆 𝒖𝒏𝒂 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒙𝒊𝒎𝒊𝒅𝒂𝒅
𝒒𝒖𝒆 𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈ú𝒏 𝒄𝒖𝒆𝒓𝒑𝒐 𝒆𝒙𝒑𝒍𝒊𝒄𝒂.

𝑬𝒔 𝒆𝒍 𝒄𝒂𝒍𝒐𝒓 𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒔 𝒅𝒆𝒍 𝒕𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒐,
𝒆𝒍 𝒗é𝒓𝒕𝒊𝒈𝒐 𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒔 𝒅𝒆𝒍 𝒏𝒐𝒎𝒃𝒓𝒆,
𝒍𝒂 𝒄𝒆𝒓𝒕𝒆𝒛𝒂 𝒊𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒃𝒍𝒆
𝒅𝒆 𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒐𝒄𝒆𝒓 𝒆𝒏 𝒆𝒍 𝒐𝒕𝒓𝒐
𝒖𝒏𝒂 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒆 𝒐𝒍𝒗𝒊𝒅𝒂𝒅𝒂 𝒅𝒆 𝒖𝒏𝒐 𝒎𝒊𝒔𝒎𝒐.

𝑪𝒐𝒎𝒐 𝒆𝒍 𝑺𝒐𝒍 𝒚 𝒍𝒂 𝑳𝒖𝒏𝒂,
𝒅𝒐𝒔 𝒇𝒖𝒆𝒓𝒛𝒂𝒔 𝒅𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒂𝒅𝒂𝒔
𝒂 𝒃𝒖𝒔𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒔𝒆 𝒆𝒏 𝒆𝒍 𝒄𝒊𝒆𝒍𝒐,
𝒂𝒖𝒏 𝒄𝒖𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒐 𝒆𝒍 𝒅í𝒂
𝒚 𝒍𝒂 𝒏𝒐𝒄𝒉𝒆 𝒐𝒄𝒖𝒑𝒆𝒏 𝒎𝒖𝒏𝒅𝒐𝒔 𝒅𝒊𝒇𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒔.

𝑬𝒍 𝒕𝒊𝒆𝒎𝒑𝒐 𝒑𝒂𝒔𝒂 𝒔𝒐𝒃𝒓𝒆 𝒏𝒐𝒔𝒐𝒕𝒓𝒐𝒔
𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒐 𝒑𝒂𝒔𝒂 𝒔𝒐𝒃𝒓𝒆 𝒍𝒂𝒔 𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒂𝒔:
𝒅𝒆𝒋𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒐 𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒄𝒂𝒔,
𝒄𝒂𝒎𝒃𝒊𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒐 𝒍𝒂 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒎𝒂 𝒅𝒆 𝒍𝒂𝒔 𝒄𝒐𝒔𝒂𝒔,
𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒐 𝒊𝒏𝒄𝒂𝒑𝒂𝒛 𝒅𝒆 𝒆𝒙𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒖𝒊𝒓
𝒂𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒐 𝒒𝒖𝒆 𝒏𝒂𝒄𝒊ó
𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒔 𝒅𝒆 𝒍𝒂 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒑𝒊𝒂 𝒅𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒊𝒂.

𝑷𝒐𝒓𝒒𝒖𝒆 𝒄𝒊𝒆𝒓𝒕𝒂𝒔 𝒂𝒍𝒎𝒂𝒔
𝒏𝒐 𝒔𝒆 𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒖𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒏.

𝑹𝒆𝒈𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒂𝒏.

𝑱. 𝑲𝒂𝒔𝒓𝒂 — 𝑻𝒐𝒅𝒐𝒔 𝒍𝒐𝒔 𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒉𝒐𝒔 𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒗𝒂𝒅𝒐𝒔.