𝔻𝕠 𝕟𝕠𝕥 𝕘𝕠 𝕘𝕖𝕟𝕥𝕝𝕖 𝕚𝕟𝕥𝕠 𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕘𝕠𝕠𝕕 𝕟𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥,
𝕆𝕝𝕕 𝕒𝕘𝕖 𝕤𝕙𝕠𝕦𝕝𝕕 𝕓𝕦𝕣𝕟 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕣𝕒𝕧𝕖 𝕒𝕥 𝕔𝕝𝕠𝕤𝕖 𝕠𝕗 𝕕𝕒𝕪;
ℝ𝕒𝕘𝕖, 𝕣𝕒𝕘𝕖 𝕒𝕘𝕒𝕚𝕟𝕤𝕥 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕕𝕪𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕠𝕗 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕝𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥.

𝕋𝕙𝕠𝕦𝕘𝕙 𝕨𝕚𝕤𝕖 𝕞𝕖𝕟 𝕒𝕥 𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕚𝕣 𝕖𝕟𝕕 𝕜𝕟𝕠𝕨 𝕕𝕒𝕣𝕜 𝕚𝕤 𝕣𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥,
𝔹𝕖𝕔𝕒𝕦𝕤𝕖 𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕚𝕣 𝕨𝕠𝕣𝕕𝕤 𝕙𝕒𝕕 𝕗𝕠𝕣𝕜𝕖𝕕 𝕟𝕠 𝕝𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥𝕟𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕪
𝔻𝕠 𝕟𝕠𝕥 𝕘𝕠 𝕘𝕖𝕟𝕥𝕝𝕖 𝕚𝕟𝕥𝕠 𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕘𝕠𝕠𝕕 𝕟𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥.

𝔾𝕠𝕠𝕕 𝕞𝕖𝕟, 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕝𝕒𝕤𝕥 𝕨𝕒𝕧𝕖 𝕓𝕪, 𝕔𝕣𝕪𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕙𝕠𝕨 𝕓𝕣𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥
𝕋𝕙𝕖𝕚𝕣 𝕗𝕣𝕒𝕚𝕝 𝕕𝕖𝕖𝕕𝕤 𝕞𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥 𝕙𝕒𝕧𝕖 𝕕𝕒𝕟𝕔𝕖𝕕 𝕚𝕟 𝕒 𝕘𝕣𝕖𝕖𝕟 𝕓𝕒𝕪,
ℝ𝕒𝕘𝕖, 𝕣𝕒𝕘𝕖 𝕒𝕘𝕒𝕚𝕟𝕤𝕥 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕕𝕪𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕠𝕗 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕝𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥.

𝕎𝕚𝕝𝕕 𝕞𝕖𝕟 𝕨𝕙𝕠 𝕔𝕒𝕦𝕘𝕙𝕥 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕤𝕒𝕟𝕘 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕤𝕦𝕟 𝕚𝕟 𝕗𝕝𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥,
𝔸𝕟𝕕 𝕝𝕖𝕒𝕣𝕟, 𝕥𝕠𝕠 𝕝𝕒𝕥𝕖, 𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕪 𝕘𝕣𝕚𝕖𝕧𝕖𝕕 𝕚𝕥 𝕠𝕟 𝕚𝕥𝕤 𝕨𝕒𝕪,
𝔻𝕠 𝕟𝕠𝕥 𝕘𝕠 𝕘𝕖𝕟𝕥𝕝𝕖 𝕚𝕟𝕥𝕠 𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕘𝕠𝕠𝕕 𝕟𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥.

𝔾𝕣𝕒𝕧𝕖 𝕞𝕖𝕟, 𝕟𝕖𝕒𝕣 𝕕𝕖𝕒𝕥𝕙, 𝕨𝕙𝕠 𝕤𝕖𝕖 𝕨𝕚𝕥𝕙 𝕓𝕝𝕚𝕟𝕕𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕤𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥
𝔹𝕝𝕚𝕟𝕕 𝕖𝕪𝕖𝕤 𝕔𝕠𝕦𝕝𝕕 𝕓𝕝𝕒𝕫𝕖 𝕝𝕚𝕜𝕖 𝕞𝕖𝕥𝕖𝕠𝕣𝕤 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕓𝕖 𝕘𝕒𝕪,
ℝ𝕒𝕘𝕖, 𝕣𝕒𝕘𝕖 𝕒𝕘𝕒𝕚𝕟𝕤𝕥 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕕𝕪𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕠𝕗 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕝𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥.

𝔸𝕟𝕕 𝕪𝕠𝕦, 𝕞𝕪 𝕗𝕒𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕣, 𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕣𝕖 𝕠𝕟 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕤𝕒𝕕 𝕙𝕖𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥,
ℂ𝕦𝕣𝕤𝕖, 𝕓𝕝𝕖𝕤𝕤, 𝕞𝕖 𝕟𝕠𝕨 𝕨𝕚𝕥𝕙 𝕪𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕗𝕚𝕖𝕣𝕔𝕖 𝕥𝕖𝕒𝕣𝕤, 𝕀 𝕡𝕣𝕒𝕪.
𝔻𝕠 𝕟𝕠𝕥 𝕘𝕠 𝕘𝕖𝕟𝕥𝕝𝕖 𝕚𝕟𝕥𝕠 𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕘𝕠𝕠𝕕 𝕟𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥.
ℝ𝕒𝕘𝕖, 𝕣𝕒𝕘𝕖 𝕒𝕘𝕒𝕚𝕟𝕤𝕥 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕕𝕪𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕠𝕗 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕝𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥.