𝘛𝘰𝘥𝘰𝘴 𝘭𝘰𝘴 𝘥í𝘢𝘴
𝘯𝘰𝘴 𝘤𝘳𝘶𝘻á𝘣𝘢𝘮𝘰𝘴
𝘱𝘰𝘳 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘴
𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥𝘢𝘴,
𝘴𝘦𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘴
𝘥𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘴
𝘴𝘦𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘣𝘢𝘯,
𝘺 𝘯𝘶𝘯𝘤𝘢 𝘯𝘰𝘴 /
𝘥𝘪𝘫𝘪𝘮𝘰𝘴 𝘯𝘢𝘥𝘢,
𝘴𝘰𝘭𝘰 𝘮𝘪𝘳𝘢𝘥𝘢𝘴
𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘢𝘴 𝘥𝘦
𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘯𝘶𝘳𝘢,
𝘨𝘶𝘪ñ𝘰𝘴 𝘥𝘦 𝘰𝘫𝘰𝘴
𝘺 𝘫𝘶𝘨𝘰𝘴𝘢𝘴
𝘴𝘰𝘯𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘢𝘴 𝘦𝘯
𝘭𝘰𝘴 𝘭𝘢𝘣𝘪𝘰𝘴,
𝘮𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘴 𝘺𝘰
𝘦𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘪𝘣í𝘢 𝘱𝘰𝘦𝘮𝘢𝘴
𝘲𝘶𝘦 𝘯𝘶𝘯𝘤𝘢
𝘵𝘦 𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘨𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘯,
𝘴𝘶𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘳 𝘺 𝘴𝘶𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘳
𝘥𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘳𝘢𝘻𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘴,
𝘦𝘭 𝘵𝘶𝘺𝘰 𝘺 𝘦𝘭 𝘮í𝘰
𝘩𝘰𝘺 𝘯𝘰𝘴 𝘤𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘨𝘢𝘯 /
𝘤𝘰𝘯 𝘴𝘶 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘥é𝘯
𝘢𝘭 𝘢𝘮𝘰𝘳,
𝘱𝘰𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘴,
𝘤𝘰𝘯 𝘨𝘢𝘯𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘦 /
𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘯 𝘥𝘦
𝘶𝘯 𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘶𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘰
𝘱𝘪𝘦𝘭 𝘢 𝘱𝘪𝘦𝘭,
𝘺 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘰𝘴 𝘢𝘭 /
𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘰𝘴 𝘶𝘯 𝘣𝘦𝘴𝘰,
𝘰 𝘭𝘦𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘪𝘴 𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘰𝘴
𝘤𝘰𝘯 𝘴𝘶𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘴
𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘶𝘴 𝘰í𝘥𝘰𝘴.
𝘝í𝘤𝘵𝘰𝘳 𝘉𝘶𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘴 𝘚𝘰𝘭𝘢
𝘌𝘯𝘴𝘢𝘺𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘢
𝘊𝘈𝘙𝘙𝘐𝘓𝘖𝘉𝘖 – 𝘊Ó𝘙𝘋𝘖𝘉𝘈 – 𝘈𝘙𝘎𝘌𝘕𝘛𝘐𝘕𝘈