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𝘕𝘰 𝘴𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘰
𝘭𝘭𝘢𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘢 𝘢
𝘦𝘴𝘢 𝘦𝘴𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘢
𝘰𝘵𝘰ñ𝘢𝘭,

𝘮𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘴𝘰𝘴
𝘥𝘦𝘥𝘰𝘴
𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘣𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘯
𝘭𝘢 𝘤𝘰𝘱𝘢,

𝘦𝘭 𝘳𝘰𝘫𝘰 𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘰
𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘳𝘪ó
𝘴𝘰𝘣𝘳𝘦 𝘭𝘢
𝘳ú𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘢 𝘮𝘦𝘴𝘢 /

𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘰 𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘳𝘦
𝘲𝘶𝘦 𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘢
𝘥𝘦 𝘶𝘯 𝘤𝘰𝘳𝘢𝘻ó𝘯
𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘥𝘰,

𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘢 𝘮𝘪𝘳𝘢𝘣𝘢
𝘤𝘰𝘯 𝘢𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘣𝘳𝘰
𝘮𝘪 𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘱𝘦𝘻𝘢,
𝘤𝘰𝘱𝘢 𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘢 /

𝘲𝘶𝘦 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘶𝘥𝘪𝘢𝘣𝘢
𝘦𝘭 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘥𝘦 𝘶𝘯
𝘳𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘦𝘣𝘳𝘰,
𝘺 𝘦𝘯 𝘭𝘢 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘴𝘢 /

𝘤𝘢í𝘥𝘢 𝘥𝘦𝘭
𝘳𝘰𝘫𝘰 𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘰,
𝘴𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘦𝘫𝘢𝘣𝘢
𝘮𝘪 𝘢𝘮𝘰𝘳 /

𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘻𝘢𝘥𝘰
𝘤𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘭,
𝘤𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘭 𝘥𝘦
𝘶𝘯𝘢 𝘤𝘰𝘱𝘢 /

𝘲𝘶𝘦 𝘧𝘶𝘦
𝘯𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘰 𝘤á𝘭𝘪𝘻,
𝘤𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘭 𝘥𝘦
𝘶𝘯𝘢 𝘤𝘰𝘱𝘢 /

𝘥𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘤é
𝘴𝘶𝘴 𝘭𝘢𝘣𝘪𝘰𝘴,
𝘣𝘦𝘣𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘰 𝘥𝘦
𝘴𝘶 𝘣𝘰𝘤𝘢 /

𝘦𝘭 𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘰 𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘰𝘳
𝘥𝘦𝘭 𝘢𝘮𝘰𝘳,
𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘢 𝘮𝘪
𝘥𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘯𝘰.

𝘝í𝘤𝘵𝘰𝘳 𝘉𝘶𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘴 𝘚𝘰𝘭𝘢
𝘌𝘯𝘴𝘢𝘺𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘢

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