𝐹𝑜𝓇𝓈𝑒 𝓊𝓃 𝓂𝒶𝓉𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑜 𝒶𝓃𝒹𝒶𝓃𝒹𝑜 𝒾𝓃 𝓊𝓃’𝒶𝓇𝒾𝒶 𝒹𝒾 𝓋𝑒𝓉𝓇𝑜,
𝒶𝓇𝒾𝒹𝒶, 𝓇𝒾𝓋𝑜𝓁𝑔𝑒𝓃𝒹𝑜𝓂𝒾, 𝓋𝑒𝒹𝓇ò 𝒸𝑜𝓂𝓅𝒾𝓇𝓈𝒾 𝒾𝓁 𝓂𝒾𝓇𝒶𝒸𝑜𝓁𝑜:
𝒾𝓁 𝓃𝓊𝓁𝓁𝒶 𝒶𝓁𝓁𝑒 𝓂𝒾𝑒 𝓈𝓅𝒶𝓁𝓁𝑒, 𝒾𝓁 𝓋𝓊𝑜𝓉𝑜 𝒹𝒾𝑒𝓉𝓇𝑜
𝒹𝒾 𝓂𝑒, 𝒸𝑜𝓃 𝓊𝓃 𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓇𝑜𝓇𝑒 𝒹𝒶 𝓊𝒷𝓇𝒾𝒶𝒸𝑜.

𝒫𝑜𝒾, 𝒸𝑜𝓂𝑒 𝓈’𝓊𝓃𝑜 𝓈𝒸𝒽𝑒𝓇𝓂𝑜, 𝓈’𝒶𝒸𝒸𝒶𝓂𝓅𝑒𝓇𝒶𝓃𝓃𝑜 𝒹𝒾 𝑔𝒾𝓉𝓉𝑜
𝒶𝓁𝒷𝑒𝓇𝒾, 𝒸𝒶𝓈𝑒, 𝒸𝑜𝓁𝓁𝒾 𝓅𝑒𝓇 𝓁’𝒾𝓃𝑔𝒶𝓃𝓃𝑜 𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓈𝓊𝑒𝓉𝑜.
𝑀𝒶 𝓈𝒶𝓇à 𝓉𝓇𝑜𝓅𝓅𝑜 𝓉𝒶𝓇𝒹𝒾; 𝑒𝒹 𝒾𝑜 𝓂𝑒 𝓃’𝒶𝓃𝒹𝓇ò 𝓏𝒾𝓉𝓉𝑜
𝓉𝓇𝒶 𝑔𝓁𝒾 𝓊𝑜𝓂𝒾𝓃𝒾 𝒸𝒽𝑒 𝓃𝑜𝓃 𝓈𝒾 𝓋𝑜𝓁𝓉𝒶𝓃𝑜, 𝒸𝑜𝓁 𝓂𝒾𝑜 𝓈𝑒𝑔𝓇𝑒𝓉𝑜.