𝐿𝑎 𝑙𝑖́𝑛𝑒𝑎 𝑠𝑒 𝑑𝑖𝑏𝑢𝑗𝑎, 𝑠𝑒 𝑡𝑢𝑒𝑟𝑐𝑒 𝑒𝑛 𝑙𝑎 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑏𝑟𝑎
𝑢𝑛𝑎 𝑒𝑥𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑛̃𝑎 𝑚𝑢𝑒𝑐𝑎 𝑑𝑒𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑒𝑎 𝑒𝑙 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑛𝑜
𝑙𝑎 𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑎 𝑑𝑒 𝑙𝑎 𝑚𝑢𝑛̃𝑒𝑐𝑎 𝑛𝑜 𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑢𝑒 𝑎𝑡𝑎𝑑𝑢𝑟𝑎𝑠
𝑝𝑜𝑟𝑐𝑒𝑙𝑎𝑛𝑎, 𝑑𝑒 𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑎 𝑡𝑒 𝑞𝑢𝑖𝑒𝑏𝑟𝑎𝑠 𝑎𝑙 𝑡𝑎𝑐𝑡𝑜
𝑇𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑎𝑠 𝑙𝑜𝑠 𝑜𝑗𝑜𝑠 𝑒𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑜 𝑞𝑢𝑒 𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑜 𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑒
𝑙𝑎 𝑐𝑢𝑒𝑟𝑑𝑎 𝑡𝑒 𝑠𝑢𝑗𝑒𝑡𝑎 𝑦 𝑛𝑜 𝑡𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑒𝑠 𝑎𝑙𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑛𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑣𝑎
𝑛𝑜 𝑚𝑖𝑟𝑒𝑠 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑎 𝑎𝑏𝑎𝑗𝑜, 𝑛𝑎𝑑𝑎 𝑏𝑢𝑒𝑛𝑜 𝑠𝑢𝑒𝑙𝑒 𝑝𝑎𝑠𝑎𝑟
𝑙𝑎𝑠 𝑙𝑎́𝑔𝑟𝑖𝑚𝑎𝑠 𝑎𝑠𝑖́ 𝑠𝑒 𝑠𝑢𝑒𝑙𝑒𝑛 𝑒𝑠𝑐𝑎𝑝𝑎𝑟
𝑇𝑢𝑠 𝑝𝑜́𝑚𝑢𝑙𝑜𝑠 𝑠𝑒 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑒𝑛 𝑦 𝑎ℎ𝑜𝑟𝑎 𝑛𝑜 𝑠𝑎𝑏𝑒𝑠
𝑞𝑢𝑒́ 𝑒𝑥𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑖𝑜́𝑛 𝑝𝑜𝑛𝑒𝑟, 𝑞𝑢𝑒́ 𝑚𝑎́𝑠𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑎 𝑡𝑎𝑛 𝑟𝑎𝑟𝑎
𝑒𝑠 𝑙𝑎 𝑠𝑜𝑛𝑟𝑖𝑠𝑎 𝑐𝑢𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑜 𝑠𝑒 𝑓𝑢𝑒𝑟𝑧𝑎
𝑌 𝑠𝑒 𝑞𝑢𝑖𝑒𝑏𝑟𝑎 𝑒𝑙 𝑐𝑟𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑙 𝑞𝑢𝑒 𝑙𝑎 𝑐𝑢𝑏𝑟𝑒; 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑜
𝑢𝑛𝑎 𝑎𝑙𝑓𝑜𝑚𝑏𝑟𝑎 𝑎 𝑡𝑢𝑠 𝑝𝑖𝑒𝑠 𝑒𝑙𝑙𝑎 𝑠𝑒 𝑠𝑢𝑒𝑙𝑒
𝑚𝑜𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑟, 𝑒𝑠 𝑒𝑙 𝑚𝑎𝑞𝑢𝑖𝑙𝑙𝑎𝑗𝑒 𝑖𝑚𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑓𝑒𝑐𝑡𝑜