𝙻𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚞𝚗 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚘 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚑𝚒𝚋𝚒𝚍𝚘, 𝚊𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚊𝚋𝚊𝚗 𝚕𝚊𝚜 𝚗𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚊 𝚙𝚒𝚎𝚕 𝚏𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚊 𝚢 𝚑𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚞𝚍𝚊. 𝙻𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚕 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚊𝚍𝚘 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚗 𝚎𝚗 𝚎𝚕 𝚒𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚊𝚙𝚊𝚍𝚘, 𝚎𝚗 𝚕𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚞𝚗 𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚘 𝚙𝚒𝚜𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚘, 𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚘 𝚒𝚕𝚞𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚍𝚘 𝚙𝚘𝚛 𝚕𝚊 𝚒𝚗𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚊 𝚒𝚕𝚞𝚜𝚒ó𝚗 𝚍𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚊𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚕𝚊 𝚜𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚛𝚎 𝚢 𝚕𝚊 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚞𝚗𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚛𝚊𝚛.
𝚄𝚗 𝚍𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚍𝚒𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚜𝚞 𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚛, 𝚞𝚗 𝚍𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊 𝚍𝚎𝚕 𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚛 𝚍𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚊𝚜 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚟𝚊𝚜. 𝙲𝚘𝚗 𝚜𝚞 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚙𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚋𝚛í𝚊, 𝚌𝚊𝚎 𝚎𝚗 𝚕𝚊𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚛 𝚊 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚟𝚘𝚌𝚊𝚛 𝚎𝚕 ú𝚕𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚘 𝚜𝚞𝚎ñ𝚘 𝚎𝚗 𝚕𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚕𝚊 𝚒𝚗𝚘𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚊. 𝙿𝚎𝚛𝚘 𝚎𝚕 𝚍𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚘 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚞𝚙𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚋𝚛𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚜 𝚘𝚓𝚘𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚞𝚗 𝙳𝚒𝚘𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚘, 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚊𝚌𝚝ú𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚗 𝚜𝚊𝚙𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚊 𝚎𝚗 𝚕𝚊 𝚘𝚜𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚍 𝚍𝚎𝚕 𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚘.
𝙴𝚕 𝚍𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚘 𝚜𝚎 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚎 𝚎𝚗 𝚕𝚘 𝚒𝚗𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚎, 𝚎𝚗 𝚕𝚘 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚊𝚍𝚘 𝚍𝚎𝚕 𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚛 𝚢 𝚕𝚊 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚊, 𝚚𝚞𝚎, 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚞𝚗𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚞𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚜 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚛𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊 𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊. 𝙼𝚒 𝚍𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚘 𝚌𝚊𝚎 𝚎𝚗 𝚕𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚒𝚍𝚘, 𝚎𝚗 𝚕𝚘 𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚍𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚘𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚕𝚘 𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚊𝚕 𝚍𝚎𝚕 𝚍í𝚊, 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚕𝚘𝚜 𝚙𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚗 𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗. 𝙻𝚊 𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚍 𝚗𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚊 𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚜𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚋í𝚊 𝚞𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚣𝚊𝚍𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚎𝚡𝚌𝚞𝚜𝚊, 𝚗𝚒 𝚌𝚘𝚗 𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚘𝚛 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚑𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚊𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚎𝚕 𝚎𝚜𝚙í𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚞 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚕𝚘 𝚗𝚒 𝚊 𝚜𝚘𝚕 𝚗𝚒 𝚊 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚋𝚛𝚊 𝚜𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚗 𝚞𝚗𝚊 𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚊 𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚞𝚎 𝚢 𝚊𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚊 𝚎𝚗 𝚍𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚜í𝚊. 𝙻𝚘𝚜 𝚘𝚓𝚘𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚗 𝚖á𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚕𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚙𝚞𝚎𝚍𝚎𝚗, 𝚕𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚗 𝚖á𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚕𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚋𝚎𝚗, 𝚕𝚊 𝚍𝚎𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚗 𝚕𝚘𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚘𝚜 𝚖á𝚜 𝚘𝚜𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚘𝚜, 𝚛𝚎𝚣𝚊 𝚖á𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚝𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚊𝚗 𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚊𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚜 𝚊𝚕 𝚙𝚒𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚕 𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚘. 𝙴𝚕 𝚍𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚘, 𝚎𝚕 𝚍𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚜 𝚍í𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚍𝚒𝚝𝚘𝚜 𝚢 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚝𝚘𝚜, 𝚜𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚛𝚊 𝚖á𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚕𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚎𝚕 𝚒𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕 𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚊.
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Ngẫu nhiênA quienes aman, a quienes sueñan, a los jovenes, a los viejos, a la muerte, al tiempo y al destino, este es un libro para todos ustedes
