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𝘕𝘢𝘥𝘪𝘦 𝘷𝘶𝘦𝘭𝘷𝘦
𝘥𝘦𝘭 𝘰𝘭𝘷𝘪𝘥𝘰,
𝘯𝘪 𝘢ú𝘯 𝘭𝘰𝘴
𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘢𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘥𝘰𝘴,

𝘺 𝘭𝘢 𝘷𝘪𝘥𝘢
𝘴𝘦 𝘱𝘳𝘦ñ𝘢
𝘥𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘨𝘳𝘢
𝘴𝘰𝘭𝘦𝘥𝘢𝘥,

𝘴𝘰𝘭𝘦𝘥𝘢𝘥
𝘲𝘶𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘣𝘦 
𝘢 𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘰 
𝘱𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘥𝘰,

𝘰 𝘭𝘢 𝘣𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘢 
𝘥𝘦𝘭 𝘤𝘢𝘧é 𝘥𝘦
𝘶𝘯 𝘱𝘰𝘤𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘰
𝘴𝘰𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘰,

𝘯𝘢𝘥𝘪𝘦 𝘷𝘶𝘦𝘭𝘷𝘦
𝘥𝘦𝘭 𝘰𝘭𝘷𝘪𝘥𝘰,
𝘺 𝘴𝘪 𝘢 𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘰 𝘴𝘦
𝘭𝘦 𝘢𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘨𝘢 /

𝘶𝘯 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘢𝘮𝘰𝘳,
𝘭𝘢 𝘤𝘳𝘶𝘦𝘭𝘥𝘢𝘥
𝘥𝘦 𝘴𝘶 𝘱𝘦𝘴𝘰 𝘭𝘰
𝘩𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦 𝘮á𝘴 /

𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘥𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘰
𝘴𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘢,
𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘻á𝘴 𝘦𝘯
𝘦𝘴𝘦 𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘥𝘰 /

𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘶𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘦
𝘶𝘯 𝘱𝘰𝘤𝘰
𝘥𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘻,
𝘺 𝘴𝘶𝘴 𝘨𝘭𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘢𝘴 /

𝘴𝘪 𝘭𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘶𝘷𝘰,
𝘢𝘭𝘨ú𝘯 𝘥í𝘢
𝘱𝘶𝘦𝘥𝘢𝘯
𝘳𝘦𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘢𝘳 /

𝘦𝘯 𝘭𝘦𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘯
𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘩𝘪𝘣𝘪𝘥𝘢
𝘭𝘢 𝘱𝘢𝘭𝘢𝘣𝘳𝘢
𝘴𝘰𝘭𝘦𝘥𝘢𝘥. 

𝘝í𝘤𝘵𝘰𝘳 𝘉𝘶𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘴 𝘚𝘰𝘭𝘢
𝘌𝘯𝘴𝘢𝘺𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘢

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