𝙋𝙤𝙧𝙦𝙪𝙚 𝙤 𝙜𝙪𝙚𝙧𝙧𝙚𝙞𝙧𝙤 𝙙𝙚 𝙛𝙚́ 𝙣𝙪𝙣𝙘𝙖 𝙜𝙚𝙡𝙖
𝙉𝙖̃𝙤 𝙖𝙜𝙧𝙖𝙙𝙖 𝙤 𝙞𝙣𝙟𝙪𝙨𝙩𝙤, 𝙚 𝙣𝙖̃𝙤 𝙖𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙚𝙡𝙖
𝙊 𝙍𝙚𝙞 𝙙𝙤𝙨 𝙧𝙚𝙞𝙨, 𝙛𝙤𝙞 𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙞́𝙙𝙤, 𝙚 𝙨𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙧𝙤𝙪 𝙣𝙚𝙨𝙨𝙖 𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙧𝙖
𝙈𝙖𝙨 𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙧𝙚𝙧 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙤 𝙪𝙢 𝙝𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙢 𝙚́ 𝙤 𝙥𝙧𝙚̂𝙢𝙞𝙤 𝙙𝙖 𝙜𝙪𝙚𝙧𝙧𝙖
𝙈𝙖𝙨 𝙤́, 𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙢𝙚 𝙛𝙤𝙧, 𝙨𝙚 𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙘𝙞𝙨𝙖𝙧, 𝙖𝙛𝙤𝙜𝙖𝙧 𝙣𝙤 𝙥𝙧𝙤́𝙥𝙧𝙞𝙤 𝙨𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙪𝙚, 𝙖𝙨𝙨𝙞𝙢 𝙨𝙚𝙧𝙖́
𝙉𝙤𝙨𝙨𝙤 𝙚𝙨𝙥𝙞́𝙧𝙞𝙩𝙤 𝙚́ 𝙞𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙩𝙖𝙡, 𝙨𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙪𝙚 𝙙𝙤 𝙢𝙚𝙪 𝙨𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙪𝙚
𝙀𝙣𝙩𝙧𝙚 𝙤 𝙘𝙤𝙧𝙩𝙚 𝙙𝙖 𝙚𝙨𝙥𝙖𝙙𝙖 𝙚 𝙤 𝙥𝙚𝙧𝙛𝙪𝙢𝙚 𝙙𝙖 𝙧𝙤𝙨𝙖
𝙎𝙚𝙢 𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙘̧𝙖̃𝙤 𝙝𝙤𝙣𝙧𝙤𝙨𝙖, 𝙨𝙚𝙢 𝙢𝙖𝙨𝙨𝙖𝙜𝙚𝙢
𝘼 𝙫𝙞𝙙𝙖 𝙚́ 𝙡𝙤𝙠𝙖, 𝙣𝙚̂𝙜𝙤
𝙀 𝙣𝙚𝙡𝙖 𝙚𝙪 𝙩𝙤̂ 𝙙𝙚 𝙥𝙖𝙨𝙨𝙖𝙜𝙚𝙢