𝕿𝖔 𝖇𝖊, 𝖔𝖗 𝖓𝖔𝖙 𝖙𝖔 𝖇𝖊, 𝖙𝖍𝖆𝖙 𝖎𝖘 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖖𝖚𝖊𝖘𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓:
𝖂𝖍𝖊𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖗 '𝖙𝖎𝖘 𝖓𝖔𝖇𝖑𝖊𝖗 𝖎𝖓 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖒𝖎𝖓𝖉 𝖙𝖔 𝖘𝖚𝖋𝖋𝖊𝖗
𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝖘𝖑𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖆𝖗𝖗𝖔𝖜𝖘 𝖔𝖋 𝖔𝖚𝖙𝖗𝖆𝖌𝖊𝖔𝖚𝖘 𝖋𝖔𝖗𝖙𝖚𝖓𝖊,
𝕺𝖗 𝖙𝖔 𝖙𝖆𝖐𝖊 𝖆𝖗𝖒𝖘 𝖆𝖌𝖆𝖎𝖓𝖘𝖙 𝖆 𝖘𝖊𝖆 𝖔𝖋 𝖙𝖗𝖔𝖚𝖇𝖑𝖊𝖘
𝕬𝖓𝖉 𝖇𝖞 𝖔𝖕𝖕𝖔𝖘𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖊𝖓𝖉 𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖒. 𝕿𝖔 𝖉𝖎𝖊—𝖙𝖔 𝖘𝖑𝖊𝖊𝖕,
𝕹𝖔 𝖒𝖔𝖗𝖊; 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖇𝖞 𝖆 𝖘𝖑𝖊𝖊𝖕 𝖙𝖔 𝖘𝖆𝖞 𝖜𝖊 𝖊𝖓𝖉
𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝖍𝖊𝖆𝖗𝖙-𝖆𝖈𝖍𝖊 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖙𝖍𝖔𝖚𝖘𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖓𝖆𝖙𝖚𝖗𝖆𝖑 𝖘𝖍𝖔𝖈𝖐𝖘
𝕿𝖍𝖆𝖙 𝖋𝖑𝖊𝖘𝖍 𝖎𝖘 𝖍𝖊𝖎𝖗 𝖙𝖔: '𝖙𝖎𝖘 𝖆 𝖈𝖔𝖓𝖘𝖚𝖒𝖒𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓
𝕯𝖊𝖛𝖔𝖚𝖙𝖑𝖞 𝖙𝖔 𝖇𝖊 𝖜𝖎𝖘𝖍'𝖉. 𝕿𝖔 𝖉𝖎𝖊, 𝖙𝖔 𝖘𝖑𝖊𝖊𝖕;
𝕿𝖔 𝖘𝖑𝖊𝖊𝖕, 𝖕𝖊𝖗𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖈𝖊 𝖙𝖔 𝖉𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖒—𝖆𝖞, 𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖗𝖊'𝖘 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖗𝖚𝖇:
𝕱𝖔𝖗 𝖎𝖓 𝖙𝖍𝖆𝖙 𝖘𝖑𝖊𝖊𝖕 𝖔𝖋 𝖉𝖊𝖆𝖙𝖍 𝖜𝖍𝖆𝖙 𝖉𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖒𝖘 𝖒𝖆𝖞 𝖈𝖔𝖒𝖊,
𝖂𝖍𝖊𝖓 𝖜𝖊 𝖍𝖆𝖛𝖊 𝖘𝖍𝖚𝖋𝖋𝖑𝖊𝖉 𝖔𝖋𝖋 𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖘 𝖒𝖔𝖗𝖙𝖆𝖑 𝖈𝖔𝖎𝖑,
𝕸𝖚𝖘𝖙 𝖌𝖎𝖛𝖊 𝖚𝖘 𝖕𝖆𝖚𝖘𝖊—𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖗𝖊'𝖘 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖗𝖊𝖘𝖕𝖊𝖈𝖙
𝕿𝖍𝖆𝖙 𝖒𝖆𝖐𝖊𝖘 𝖈𝖆𝖑𝖆𝖒𝖎𝖙𝖞 𝖔𝖋 𝖘𝖔 𝖑𝖔𝖓𝖌 𝖑𝖎𝖋𝖊.
𝕱𝖔𝖗 𝖜𝖍𝖔 𝖜𝖔𝖚𝖑𝖉 𝖇𝖊𝖆𝖗 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖜𝖍𝖎𝖕𝖘 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖘𝖈𝖔𝖗𝖓𝖘 𝖔𝖋 𝖙𝖎𝖒𝖊,
𝕿𝖍'𝖔𝖕𝖕𝖗𝖊𝖘𝖘𝖔𝖗'𝖘 𝖜𝖗𝖔𝖓𝖌, 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖕𝖗𝖔𝖚𝖉 𝖒𝖆𝖓'𝖘 𝖈𝖔𝖓𝖙𝖚𝖒𝖊𝖑𝖞,
𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝖕𝖆𝖓𝖌𝖘 𝖔𝖋 𝖉𝖎𝖘𝖕𝖗𝖎𝖟'𝖉 𝖑𝖔𝖛𝖊, 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖑𝖆𝖜'𝖘 𝖉𝖊𝖑𝖆𝖞,
𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝖎𝖓𝖘𝖔𝖑𝖊𝖓𝖈𝖊 𝖔𝖋 𝖔𝖋𝖋𝖎𝖈𝖊, 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖘𝖕𝖚𝖗𝖓𝖘
𝕿𝖍𝖆𝖙 𝖕𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖊𝖓𝖙 𝖒𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖙 𝖔𝖋 𝖙𝖍'𝖚𝖓𝖜𝖔𝖗𝖙𝖍𝖞 𝖙𝖆𝖐𝖊𝖘,
𝖂𝖍𝖊𝖓 𝖍𝖊 𝖍𝖎𝖒𝖘𝖊𝖑𝖋 𝖒𝖎𝖌𝖍𝖙 𝖍𝖎𝖘 𝖖𝖚𝖎𝖊𝖙𝖚𝖘 𝖒𝖆𝖐𝖊
𝖂𝖎𝖙𝖍 𝖆 𝖇𝖆𝖗𝖊 𝖇𝖔𝖉𝖐𝖎𝖓? 𝖂𝖍𝖔 𝖜𝖔𝖚𝖑𝖉 𝖋𝖆𝖗𝖉𝖊𝖑𝖘 𝖇𝖊𝖆𝖗,
𝕿𝖔 𝖌𝖗𝖚𝖓𝖙 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖘𝖜𝖊𝖆𝖙 𝖚𝖓𝖉𝖊𝖗 𝖆 𝖜𝖊𝖆𝖗𝖞 𝖑𝖎𝖋𝖊,
𝕭𝖚𝖙 𝖙𝖍𝖆𝖙 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖉𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖉 𝖔𝖋 𝖘𝖔𝖒𝖊𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖆𝖋𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖉𝖊𝖆𝖙𝖍,
𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝖚𝖓𝖉𝖎𝖘𝖈𝖔𝖛𝖊𝖗𝖊'𝖉 𝖈𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖙𝖗𝖞, 𝖋𝖗𝖔𝖒 𝖜𝖍𝖔𝖘𝖊 𝖇𝖔𝖚𝖗𝖓
𝕹𝖔 𝖙𝖗𝖆𝖛𝖊𝖑𝖑𝖊𝖗 𝖗𝖊𝖙𝖚𝖗𝖓𝖘, 𝖕𝖚𝖟𝖟𝖑𝖊𝖘 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖜𝖎𝖑𝖑,
𝕬𝖓𝖉 𝖒𝖆𝖐𝖊𝖘 𝖚𝖘 𝖗𝖆𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖗 𝖇𝖊𝖆𝖗 𝖙𝖍𝖔𝖘𝖊 𝖎𝖑𝖑𝖘 𝖜𝖊 𝖍𝖆𝖛𝖊
𝕿𝖍𝖆𝖓 𝖋𝖑𝖞 𝖙𝖔 𝖔𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖗𝖘 𝖙𝖍𝖆𝖙 𝖜𝖊 𝖐𝖓𝖔𝖜 𝖓𝖔𝖙 𝖔𝖋?
𝕿𝖍𝖚𝖘 𝖈𝖔𝖓𝖘𝖈𝖎𝖊𝖓𝖈𝖊 𝖉𝖔𝖙𝖍 𝖒𝖆𝖐𝖊 𝖈𝖔𝖜𝖆𝖗𝖉𝖘 𝖔𝖋 𝖚𝖘 𝖆𝖑𝖑,
𝕬𝖓𝖉 𝖙𝖍𝖚𝖘 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖓𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖛𝖊 𝖍𝖚𝖊 𝖔𝖋 𝖗𝖊𝖘𝖔𝖑𝖚𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓
𝕴𝖘 𝖘𝖎𝖈𝖐𝖑𝖎𝖊𝖉 𝖔'𝖊𝖗 𝖜𝖎𝖙𝖍 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖕𝖆𝖑𝖊 𝖈𝖆𝖘𝖙 𝖔𝖋 𝖙𝖍𝖔𝖚𝖌𝖍𝖙,
𝕬𝖓𝖉 𝖊𝖓𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖕𝖗𝖎𝖘𝖊𝖘 𝖔𝖋 𝖌𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖙 𝖕𝖎𝖙𝖍 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖒𝖔𝖒𝖊𝖓𝖙
𝖂𝖎𝖙𝖍 𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖘 𝖗𝖊𝖌𝖆𝖗𝖉 𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖎𝖗 𝖈𝖚𝖗𝖗𝖊𝖓𝖙𝖘 𝖙𝖚𝖗𝖓 𝖆𝖜𝖗𝖞
𝕬𝖓𝖉 𝖑𝖔𝖘𝖊 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖓𝖆𝖒𝖊 𝖔𝖋 𝖆𝖈𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓.