𝕴𝖓𝖉𝖊𝖑𝖎𝖈𝖆𝖙𝖊 𝖎𝖘 𝖍𝖊 𝖜𝖍𝖔 𝖑𝖔𝖆𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖘
𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝖆𝖘𝖕𝖊𝖈𝖙 𝖔𝖋 𝖍𝖎𝖘 𝖋𝖑𝖊𝖘𝖍𝖞 𝖈𝖑𝖔𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖘, -- 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝖋𝖑𝖞𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖋𝖆𝖇𝖗𝖎𝖈 𝖘𝖙𝖎𝖙𝖈𝖍𝖊𝖉 𝖔𝖓 𝖇𝖔𝖓𝖊,
𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝖛𝖊𝖘𝖙𝖚𝖗𝖊 𝖔𝖋 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖘𝖐𝖊𝖑𝖊𝖙𝖔𝖓,
𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝖌𝖆𝖗𝖒𝖊𝖓𝖙 𝖓𝖊𝖎𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖗 𝖋𝖚𝖗 𝖓𝖔𝖗 𝖍𝖆𝖎𝖗,
𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝖈𝖑𝖔𝖆𝖐 𝖔𝖋 𝖊𝖛𝖎𝖑 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖉𝖊𝖘𝖕𝖆𝖎𝖗,
𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝖛𝖊𝖎𝖑 𝖑𝖔𝖓𝖌 𝖛𝖎𝖔𝖑𝖆𝖙𝖊𝖉 𝖇𝖞 𝕮𝖆𝖗𝖊𝖘𝖘𝖊𝖘 𝖔𝖋 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖊𝖞𝖊.

𝖄𝖊𝖙 𝖘𝖚𝖈𝖍 𝖎𝖘 𝖒𝖞 𝖚𝖓𝖘𝖊𝖊𝖒𝖑𝖎𝖓𝖊𝖘𝖘:
𝕴 𝖍𝖆𝖙𝖊 𝖒𝖞 𝖊𝖕𝖎𝖉𝖊𝖗𝖒𝖆𝖑 𝖉𝖗𝖊𝖘𝖘,
𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝖘𝖆𝖛𝖆𝖌𝖊 𝖇𝖑𝖔𝖔𝖉'𝖘 𝖔𝖇𝖘𝖈𝖊𝖓𝖎𝖙𝖞,
𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝖗𝖆𝖌𝖘 𝖔𝖋 𝖒𝖞 𝖆𝖓𝖆𝖙𝖔𝖒𝖞,
𝕬𝖓𝖉 𝖜𝖎𝖑𝖑𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖑𝖞 𝖜𝖔𝖚𝖑𝖉 𝕴 𝖉𝖎𝖘𝖕𝖊𝖓𝖘𝖊
𝖂𝖎𝖙𝖍 𝖋𝖆𝖑𝖘𝖊 𝖆𝖈𝖈𝖔𝖚𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖒𝖊𝖓𝖙𝖘 𝖔𝖋 𝖘𝖊𝖓𝖘𝖊,
𝕿𝖔 𝖘𝖑𝖊𝖊𝖕 𝖎𝖒𝖒𝖔𝖉𝖊𝖘𝖙𝖑𝖞, 𝖆 𝖒𝖔𝖘𝖙
𝕴𝖓𝖈𝖆𝖗𝖓𝖆𝖉𝖎𝖓𝖊 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖈𝖆𝖗𝖓𝖆𝖑 𝖌𝖍𝖔𝖘𝖙.