Machiavélisme

𝑈𝑛𝑎 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑏𝑟𝑎 𝑠𝑒 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑚𝑎 𝑝𝑜𝑟 𝑒𝑙 𝑟𝑎𝑏𝑖𝑙𝑙𝑜 𝑑𝑒𝑙 𝑜𝑗𝑜,
𝑠𝑢𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑖𝑙𝑢𝑠𝑖𝑜́𝑛 𝑡𝑒 𝑠𝑢𝑒𝑙𝑒 𝑎𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑝𝑎𝑟.
𝐺𝑖𝑟𝑎,
𝑔𝑖𝑟𝑎, 𝑔𝑖𝑟𝑎
𝑔𝑖𝑟𝑎.
𝑆𝑖𝑒𝑚𝑝𝑟𝑒 𝑔𝑢𝑖̀𝑎 𝑡𝑢 𝑚𝑎𝑛𝑜,
𝑠𝑖𝑒𝑚𝑝𝑟𝑒 𝑔𝑢𝑖𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑜 𝑡𝑢𝑠 𝑝𝑎𝑠𝑜𝑠 𝑎 𝑒𝑠𝑎 𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑠𝑎 𝑞𝑢𝑒 𝑠𝑒 𝑚𝑒𝑠𝑒 𝑐𝑜𝑛 𝑒𝑙 𝑣𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑜 𝑒𝑚𝑝𝑜𝑙𝑣𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑜.
𝐺𝑖𝑟𝑎,
𝑔𝑖𝑟𝑎, 𝑔𝑖𝑟𝑎
𝑔𝑖𝑟𝑎.
𝑆𝑒 𝑚𝑒𝑠𝑒 𝑎𝑞𝑢𝑒𝑙𝑙𝑎 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑏𝑟𝑎 𝑦 𝑙𝑎𝑔𝑟𝑖𝑚𝑒𝑎𝑠 𝑎𝑙 𝑐𝑎𝑒𝑟 𝑙𝑎 𝑛𝑜𝑐ℎ𝑒, 𝑎𝑞𝑢𝑒𝑙𝑙𝑎 𝑐𝑖𝑐𝑎𝑡𝑟𝑖𝑧 𝑛𝑜 𝑑𝑒𝑗𝑎𝑟𝑎́ 𝑑𝑒 𝑔𝑖𝑟𝑎𝑟,
𝑀𝑖𝑟𝑎̀,
𝑚𝑖𝑟𝑎̀, 𝑚𝑖𝑟𝑎̀
𝑚𝑖𝑟𝑎̊.
𝐸𝑙 𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑚𝑖̀𝑛 𝑞𝑢𝑒 𝑠𝑒 𝑒𝑠𝑐𝑢𝑟𝑟𝑒 𝑑𝑒𝑙 𝑖𝑟𝑖𝑠 𝑑𝑒𝑙 𝑜𝑗𝑜, 𝑏𝑙𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑜 𝑗𝑎𝑚𝑎̀𝑠 𝑠𝑒𝑟𝑎́, 𝑔𝑖𝑟𝑎𝑠 𝑢𝑛𝑎 𝑦 𝑜𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑠 𝑣𝑒𝑠 𝑟𝑒𝑝𝑖𝑡𝑖𝑒́𝑛𝑑𝑜 𝑒𝑙 𝑚𝑖𝑠𝑚𝑜 𝑠𝑢𝑒𝑛̃𝑜 𝑑𝑒 𝑎𝑦𝑒𝑟,𝑎𝑛ℎ𝑒𝑙𝑎𝑠 𝑒𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑎𝑟 𝑞𝑢𝑒 𝑙𝑎 𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑟𝑎 𝑠𝑒 𝑣𝑢𝑒𝑙𝑣𝑎 𝑓𝑎𝑙𝑠𝑒𝑑𝑎𝑑.

𝑆𝑖 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑧𝑎𝑠 𝑎 𝑐𝑎𝑒𝑟 𝑡𝑢 𝑚𝑎𝑛𝑜 𝑠𝑜𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑟𝑒̀, ℎ𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑎 𝑡𝑢 𝑚𝑖𝑟𝑎𝑑𝑎 𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑑𝑒𝑟, 𝑎𝑞𝑢𝑒𝑙𝑙𝑎 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑏𝑟𝑎 𝑛𝑜 𝑑𝑒𝑗𝑎 𝑑𝑒 𝑔𝑖𝑟𝑎𝑟.
𝑀𝑖𝑟𝑎́,
𝑚𝑖𝑟𝑎̀, 𝑚𝑖𝑟𝑎̀
𝑚𝑖𝑟𝑎́.
𝐸𝑙 𝑐𝑎𝑚𝑝𝑜 𝑑𝑒 𝑔𝑖𝑟𝑎𝑠𝑜𝑙𝑒𝑠 𝑛𝑜 𝑑𝑒𝑗𝑎̀ 𝑑𝑒 𝑓𝑙𝑜𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑒𝑟, 𝑙𝑎 𝑒𝑥𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑛̃𝑎 𝑐𝑎𝑙𝑖𝑑𝑒𝑧 𝑛𝑜𝑠 𝑠𝑢𝑒𝑙𝑒 𝑎ℎ𝑜𝑔𝑎𝑟, 𝑒𝑛 𝑠𝑖𝑙𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑖𝑜 𝑛𝑜𝑠 ℎ𝑎𝑏𝑟𝑒𝑚𝑜𝑠 𝑑𝑒 𝑎𝑠𝑓𝑖𝑥𝑖𝑎𝑟.

𝑈𝑛𝑎 𝑒𝑥𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑛̃𝑎 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑏𝑟𝑎 𝑠𝑒 𝑒𝑠𝑐𝑢𝑟𝑟𝑒 𝑑𝑒 𝑡𝑢 𝑖𝑟𝑖𝑠 𝑦 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑧𝑎 𝑎 𝑔𝑖𝑟𝑎𝑟, 𝑔𝑖𝑟𝑎𝑟, 𝑔𝑖𝑟𝑎𝑟, 𝑠𝑜𝑏𝑟𝑒 𝑒𝑠𝑎 𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑟𝑎 𝑑𝑒 𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑚𝑖̀𝑛 𝑠𝑒 𝑚𝑒𝑠𝑒 𝑏𝑎𝑗𝑜̀ 𝑡𝑢𝑠 𝑝𝑖𝑒𝑠.

𝑈𝑛 𝑎𝑏𝑟𝑎𝑧𝑜́ 𝑡𝑎𝑛 𝑒𝑓𝑖𝑚𝑒𝑟𝑜 𝑦 𝑢𝑛𝑎 𝑑𝑒𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑑𝑖𝑑𝑎 𝑞𝑢𝑒 𝑛𝑜 𝑠𝑒 𝑚𝑢𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑎, 𝑣𝑜𝑙𝑣𝑒𝑚𝑜𝑠 𝑎 𝑒𝑚𝑝𝑒𝑧𝑎𝑟 𝑒𝑛 𝑎𝑞𝑢𝑒𝑙𝑙𝑎 𝑐𝑢𝑒𝑟𝑑𝑎 𝑓𝑙𝑜𝑗𝑎 𝑡𝑢𝑠 𝑝𝑎𝑠𝑜𝑠 𝑠𝑜𝑛 𝑑𝑖𝑠𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑗𝑜𝑠.

𝐶𝑎𝑒𝑠 𝑢𝑛𝑎 𝑦 𝑜𝑡𝑟𝑎 𝑣𝑒𝑠, 𝑠𝑖𝑒𝑚𝑝𝑟𝑒 𝑔𝑖𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑜, 𝑒𝑛𝑟𝑒𝑑𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑜 𝑡𝑢 𝑚𝑖𝑟𝑎𝑟𝑎𝑑𝑎 𝑐𝑜𝑛 𝑙𝑎𝑠 𝑐𝑢𝑒𝑟𝑑𝑎𝑠 𝑑𝑒𝑙 𝑝𝑎𝑠𝑎𝑑𝑜.
𝐺𝑖𝑟𝑎,
𝑔𝑖𝑟𝑎, 𝑔𝑖𝑟𝑎
𝑔𝑖𝑟𝑎.
𝐸𝑙 𝑖𝑟𝑖𝑠 𝑑𝑒 𝑡𝑢𝑠 𝑜𝑗𝑜𝑠 𝑛𝑜 𝑑𝑒𝑗𝑎́ 𝑑𝑒 𝑣𝑢𝑒𝑙𝑡𝑎𝑠 𝑑𝑎𝑟 𝑦 𝑒𝑙 𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑚𝑖̀𝑛 𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑓𝑖𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑢𝑛𝑎 𝑣𝑒𝑠 𝑚𝑎̀𝑠 𝑒𝑠𝑐𝑎𝑝𝑎𝑟 𝑝𝑜𝑟 𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑟𝑒 𝑡𝑢 𝑏𝑜𝑐𝑎 𝑠𝑒 𝑚𝑒𝑠𝑒𝑛 𝑙𝑎𝑠 𝑔𝑜𝑡𝑎𝑠 𝑑𝑒 𝑠𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑟𝑒́...𝑢𝑛𝑎 𝑣𝑒𝑠 𝑚𝑎̀𝑠.