"𝕱𝔩𝔢𝔠𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔰𝔦 𝔫𝔢𝔮𝔲𝔢𝔬 𝔰𝔲𝔭𝔢𝔯𝔬𝔰, 𝖆𝖈𝖍𝖊𝖗𝖔𝖓𝖙𝖆 𝔪𝔬𝔳𝔢𝔟𝔬"

𝙴𝚞 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚘.
𝙽ã𝚘 𝚙𝚘𝚛 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚑𝚊 -
𝚖𝚊𝚜 𝚙𝚘𝚛 𝚞𝚛𝚐ê𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚊.

É 𝚊 𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚊 𝚘𝚞 𝚘 𝚜𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚞𝚎.
𝙾 𝚙𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚕 𝚘𝚞 𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚎.
𝙰 𝚙𝚊𝚕𝚊𝚟𝚛𝚊 𝚘𝚞 𝚘 𝚊𝚋𝚒𝚜𝚖𝚘.

𝙳𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚘 𝚍𝚎𝚖ô𝚗𝚒𝚘𝚜 𝚎𝚖 𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚜,
𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚑𝚘 𝚐𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚘𝚜 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚎 𝚟í𝚛𝚐𝚞𝚕𝚊𝚜,
𝚟𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚝𝚘 𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚊𝚙𝚘𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚎 𝚎𝚖 𝚜𝚒𝚕ê𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚘.

𝙲𝚊𝚍𝚊 𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕
é 𝚞𝚖 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚐𝚘 𝚗𝚘 𝚌𝚊𝚒𝚡ã𝚘 𝚍𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚋𝚛𝚊.
𝙲𝚊𝚍𝚊 𝚖𝚎𝚝á𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚊, 𝚞𝚖 𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚕𝚑𝚘 𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚍𝚘
𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚎 𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚕 𝚜𝚎 𝚟ê 𝚎 𝚜𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚍𝚎.

𝚂𝚎 𝚗ã𝚘 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚘,
𝚎𝚕𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚎.
𝙼𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚑𝚊 𝚙𝚘𝚛 𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚘.
𝙼𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚟𝚎𝚒𝚊𝚜.
𝙰𝚜𝚜𝚘𝚙𝚛𝚊 𝚜𝚎𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚍𝚘𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚘𝚜 𝚍𝚘 𝚖𝚎𝚞 𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚘.

𝙼𝚊𝚜 𝚎𝚗𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚊ç𝚘 𝚎𝚖 𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚘,
𝚎𝚞 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚛𝚘.

𝙴𝚗𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚍ã𝚘 𝚗𝚘 𝚙𝚎𝚒𝚝𝚘,
𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚛á 𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚝ó𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚛
𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚎𝚞 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚊𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚎ç𝚊 𝚗𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚜.