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“Dᥱdιᥴᥲdo ᥲ todos ᥲqᥙᥱᥣᥣos hᥱrmᥲᥒos
qᥙᥱ, ρor ᥙᥒᥲ ᥙ otrᥲ ᥴᥲᥙsᥲ,
sᥙs rᥱᥴᥙᥱrdos sᥱ hᥲᥒ dᥱsvᥲᥒᥱᥴιdo.”
Zonder Ramirez
“Dᥱdιᥴᥲdo ᥲ todos ᥲqᥙᥱᥣᥣos hᥱrmᥲᥒos
qᥙᥱ, ρor ᥙᥒᥲ ᥙ otrᥲ ᥴᥲᥙsᥲ,
sᥙs rᥱᥴᥙᥱrdos sᥱ hᥲᥒ dᥱsvᥲᥒᥱᥴιdo.”
Zonder Ramirez
𝙴𝚗 𝚞𝚗 𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚘́𝚗 𝚊𝚙𝚊𝚌𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚍𝚎 𝚜𝚞 𝚑𝚘𝚐𝚊𝚛, 𝚎𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚗𝚘 𝚜𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚍𝚊 𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚎, 𝚛𝚘𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚊́𝚕𝚋𝚞𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚝𝚘𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚏𝚒́𝚊𝚜 𝚢 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚜 𝚙𝚘𝚛 𝚎𝚕 𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚘. 𝙲𝚊𝚍𝚊 𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚗, 𝚌𝚊𝚍𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚕𝚊𝚋𝚛𝚊, 𝚎𝚛𝚊 𝚞𝚗 𝚟𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚐𝚒𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚘𝚜 𝚐𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚜𝚘𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚜𝚞 𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚊, 𝚏𝚛𝚊𝚐𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚘𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚞𝚗 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚊𝚍𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚊𝚜, 𝚍𝚎 𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝚢 𝚍𝚎 𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚜.
𝙰𝚕 𝚖𝚒𝚛𝚊𝚛 𝚜𝚞𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚜 𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚊𝚜, 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚊𝚋𝚊 𝚑𝚊𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚍𝚘 𝚘𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚗 𝚏𝚞𝚎𝚛𝚣𝚊, 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚊𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚊 𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚗 𝚞𝚗 𝚎𝚌𝚘 𝚕𝚎𝚓𝚊𝚗𝚘 𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚞 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎. 𝚂𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒́𝚊 𝚎𝚕 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚜 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚜𝚞 𝚓𝚞𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚞𝚍, 𝚕𝚊 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚊 𝚜𝚊𝚕𝚊𝚍𝚊 𝚍𝚎𝚕 𝚖𝚊𝚛 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚒́𝚊 𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚛 𝚢 𝚕𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚊𝚓𝚊𝚍𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚜 𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚐𝚘𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚞𝚗𝚊 𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚍𝚒́𝚊 𝚘𝚕𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚍𝚊. 𝚂𝚒𝚗 𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚐𝚘, 𝚎𝚜𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚜, 𝚝𝚊𝚗 𝚟𝚒́𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚜 𝚞𝚗𝚊 𝚟𝚎𝚣, 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚣𝚊𝚋𝚊𝚗 𝚊 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚟𝚊𝚗𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚎, 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚊𝚜 𝚙𝚘𝚛 𝚎𝚕 𝚟𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚎𝚕 𝚘𝚕𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚘.
𝙲𝚊𝚍𝚊 𝚍𝚒́𝚊, 𝚖𝚊́𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚊𝚐𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚘𝚜 𝚜𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚟𝚒́𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚗 𝚕𝚊 𝚗𝚒𝚎𝚋𝚕𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚜𝚞 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚕. 𝙻𝚘𝚜 𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚜 𝚜𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚒́𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚜, 𝚕𝚘𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚖𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚞𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘𝚜. 𝙿𝚎𝚛𝚘 𝚊𝚞́𝚗, 𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚞 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚣𝚘́𝚗, 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚒́𝚊 𝚞𝚗𝚊 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚙𝚊, 𝚞𝚗𝚊 𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚞𝚎 𝚕𝚞𝚣 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚜𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚋𝚊 𝚊 𝚎𝚡𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚞𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚎. 𝙴𝚜𝚊 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚙𝚊, 𝚕𝚊 𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚞𝚎𝚛𝚍𝚘𝚜, 𝚎𝚛𝚊 𝚎𝚕 𝚝𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚊 𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚊 𝚟𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚊 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎, 𝚍𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚘𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚍𝚘𝚜 𝚢 𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚘𝚜.
𝙰 𝚙𝚎𝚜𝚊𝚛 𝚍𝚎 𝚕𝚊 𝚎𝚗𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚍𝚊𝚍 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚍𝚒𝚋𝚞𝚓𝚊𝚋𝚊 𝚜𝚞 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚊𝚍𝚘, 𝚎𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚗𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚛𝚎𝚒́𝚊, 𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚋𝚒́𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚋𝚒́𝚊 𝚊𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚘 𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚋𝚒́𝚊 𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚘 𝚊𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚘. 𝙴𝚗 𝚜𝚞 𝚍𝚎𝚋𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚍, 𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚊 𝚏𝚞𝚎𝚛𝚣𝚊 𝚎𝚗 𝚕𝚊 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚣𝚊 𝚎𝚏𝚒́𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚞𝚎𝚛𝚍𝚘𝚜, 𝚎𝚗 𝚕𝚊 𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚣𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚎, 𝚊𝚞𝚗𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚜𝚞 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚜 𝚘𝚕𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚊, 𝚜𝚞 𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚊 𝚕𝚘𝚜 𝚐𝚞𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚊𝚋𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚜𝚒𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚛𝚎. 𝙴𝚗 𝚕𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚎𝚝𝚞𝚍 𝚍𝚎 𝚜𝚞 𝚎𝚡𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚊, 𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚊 𝚊 𝚕𝚊 𝚍𝚞𝚕𝚌𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚒́𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚕𝚘 𝚟𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚘, 𝚜𝚊𝚋𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚍𝚊 𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚊 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚊 𝚎𝚛𝚊 𝚞𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚘 𝚍𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚘 𝚎𝚗 𝚎𝚕 𝚟𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚊𝚙𝚒𝚣 𝚍𝚎 𝚜𝚞 𝚜𝚎𝚛.
𝙴𝚗 𝚞𝚗 𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚘́𝚗 𝚊𝚙𝚊𝚌𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚍𝚎 𝚜𝚞 𝚑𝚘𝚐𝚊𝚛, 𝚎𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚗𝚘 𝚜𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚍𝚊 𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚎, 𝚛𝚘𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚊́𝚕𝚋𝚞𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚝𝚘𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚏𝚒́𝚊𝚜 𝚢 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚜 𝚙𝚘𝚛 𝚎𝚕 𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚘. 𝙲𝚊𝚍𝚊 𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚗, 𝚌𝚊𝚍𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚕𝚊𝚋𝚛𝚊, 𝚎𝚛𝚊 𝚞𝚗 𝚟𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚐𝚒𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚘𝚜 𝚐𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚜𝚘𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚜𝚞 𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚊, 𝚏𝚛𝚊𝚐𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚘𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚞𝚗 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚊𝚍𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚊𝚜, 𝚍𝚎 𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝚢 𝚍𝚎 𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚜.
𝙰𝚕 𝚖𝚒𝚛𝚊𝚛 𝚜𝚞𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚜 𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚊𝚜, 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚊𝚋𝚊 𝚑𝚊𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚍𝚘 𝚘𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚗 𝚏𝚞𝚎𝚛𝚣𝚊, 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚊𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚊 𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚗 𝚞𝚗 𝚎𝚌𝚘 𝚕𝚎𝚓𝚊𝚗𝚘 𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚞 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎. 𝚂𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒́𝚊 𝚎𝚕 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚜 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚜𝚞 𝚓𝚞𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚞𝚍, 𝚕𝚊 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚊 𝚜𝚊𝚕𝚊𝚍𝚊 𝚍𝚎𝚕 𝚖𝚊𝚛 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚒́𝚊 𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚛 𝚢 𝚕𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚊𝚓𝚊𝚍𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚜 𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚐𝚘𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚞𝚗𝚊 𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚍𝚒́𝚊 𝚘𝚕𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚍𝚊. 𝚂𝚒𝚗 𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚐𝚘, 𝚎𝚜𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚜, 𝚝𝚊𝚗 𝚟𝚒́𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚜 𝚞𝚗𝚊 𝚟𝚎𝚣, 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚣𝚊𝚋𝚊𝚗 𝚊 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚟𝚊𝚗𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚎, 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚊𝚜 𝚙𝚘𝚛 𝚎𝚕 𝚟𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚎𝚕 𝚘𝚕𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚘.
𝙲𝚊𝚍𝚊 𝚍𝚒́𝚊, 𝚖𝚊́𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚊𝚐𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚘𝚜 𝚜𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚟𝚒́𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚗 𝚕𝚊 𝚗𝚒𝚎𝚋𝚕𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚜𝚞 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚕. 𝙻𝚘𝚜 𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚜 𝚜𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚒́𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚜, 𝚕𝚘𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚖𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚞𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘𝚜. 𝙿𝚎𝚛𝚘 𝚊𝚞́𝚗, 𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚞 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚣𝚘́𝚗, 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚒́𝚊 𝚞𝚗𝚊 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚙𝚊, 𝚞𝚗𝚊 𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚞𝚎 𝚕𝚞𝚣 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚜𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚋𝚊 𝚊 𝚎𝚡𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚞𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚎. 𝙴𝚜𝚊 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚙𝚊, 𝚕𝚊 𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚞𝚎𝚛𝚍𝚘𝚜, 𝚎𝚛𝚊 𝚎𝚕 𝚝𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚊 𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚊 𝚟𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚊 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎, 𝚍𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚘𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚍𝚘𝚜 𝚢 𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚘𝚜.
𝙰 𝚙𝚎𝚜𝚊𝚛 𝚍𝚎 𝚕𝚊 𝚎𝚗𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚍𝚊𝚍 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚍𝚒𝚋𝚞𝚓𝚊𝚋𝚊 𝚜𝚞 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚊𝚍𝚘, 𝚎𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚗𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚛𝚎𝚒́𝚊, 𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚋𝚒́𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚋𝚒́𝚊 𝚊𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚘 𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚋𝚒́𝚊 𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚘 𝚊𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚘. 𝙴𝚗 𝚜𝚞 𝚍𝚎𝚋𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚍, 𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚊 𝚏𝚞𝚎𝚛𝚣𝚊 𝚎𝚗 𝚕𝚊 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚣𝚊 𝚎𝚏𝚒́𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚞𝚎𝚛𝚍𝚘𝚜, 𝚎𝚗 𝚕𝚊 𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚣𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚎, 𝚊𝚞𝚗𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚜𝚞 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚜 𝚘𝚕𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚊, 𝚜𝚞 𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚊 𝚕𝚘𝚜 𝚐𝚞𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚊𝚋𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚜𝚒𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚛𝚎. 𝙴𝚗 𝚕𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚎𝚝𝚞𝚍 𝚍𝚎 𝚜𝚞 𝚎𝚡𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚊, 𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚊 𝚊 𝚕𝚊 𝚍𝚞𝚕𝚌𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚒́𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚕𝚘 𝚟𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚘, 𝚜𝚊𝚋𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚍𝚊 𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚊 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚊 𝚎𝚛𝚊 𝚞𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚘 𝚍𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚘 𝚎𝚗 𝚎𝚕 𝚟𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚊𝚙𝚒𝚣 𝚍𝚎 𝚜𝚞 𝚜𝚎𝚛.
Bienvenido todos a esta, mi participación de la semana en el Club de Poesía auspiciado por la comunidad @freewritehouse. Gracias a la comunidad #blockchainpoets por permitirme postear aquí. Si es de tu agrado participar, aún estás a tiempo, este es el enlace:
ℂ𝕝𝕦𝕓 𝕕𝕖 ℙ𝕠𝕖𝕤𝕚́𝕒
Dedicado a todos aquellos poetas que contribuyen,
día a día,
a hacer de nuestro planeta, un mundo mejor.
”Dᥱdιᥴᥲtᥱd to ᥲᥣᥣ thosᥱ brothᥱrs ᥕho,
for oᥒᥱ rᥱᥲsoᥒ or ᥲᥒothᥱr,
thᥱιr mᥱmorιᥱs hᥲvᥱ fᥲdᥱd.”
Zonder Ramirez
The English version differs from the original Spanish version because if I translate it literally, the meaning, rhythm and syllable count are lost.
𝙸𝚗 𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚎𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚜𝚊𝚝 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚕𝚋𝚞𝚖𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚢𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎. 𝙴𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚐𝚎, 𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍, 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚗𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎, 𝚏𝚛𝚊𝚐𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚕𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚎𝚛, 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚍𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎.
𝙻𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜, 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚝𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚕𝚢, 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚊 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚎𝚌𝚑𝚘 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍. 𝙷𝚎 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚑, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚕𝚝𝚢 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚣𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚊 𝚑𝚎 𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚎𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚍𝚢. 𝚈𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜, 𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚜𝚘 𝚟𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚍, 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚊𝚍𝚎, 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚋𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚘𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚗.
𝙴𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚍𝚊𝚢, 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚊𝚐𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍. 𝙵𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚜, 𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜. 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕, 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝, 𝚊 𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚔 𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍, 𝚊 𝚏𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚎𝚡𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚞𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍. 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚔, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜, 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕, 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚜.
𝙳𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚝, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚍, 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚍. 𝙸𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜, 𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚝𝚑 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚙𝚑𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜, 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝, 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚕 𝚔𝚎𝚙𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛. 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚘, 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚡𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎, 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚍, 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚐𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚟𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐.
Welcome everyone to this, my participation of the week in the Poetry Club hosted by the @freewritehouse community. Thanks to the #blockchainpoets community for allowing me to post here. If you’d like to join, there’s still time, here’s the link:
ℙ𝕠𝕖𝕥𝕣𝕪 ℂ𝕝𝕦𝕓
🔆****🔆****🔆****🔆****🔆****🔆****🔆****🔆****🔆****🔆
Dedicated to all those poets who contribute,
** day by day,**
to make our planet a better world.
Dedicado a todos aquellos poetas que contribuyen,
día a día,
a hacer de nuestro planeta, un mundo mejor.
”Dᥱdιᥴᥲtᥱd to ᥲᥣᥣ thosᥱ brothᥱrs ᥕho,
for oᥒᥱ rᥱᥲsoᥒ or ᥲᥒothᥱr,
thᥱιr mᥱmorιᥱs hᥲvᥱ fᥲdᥱd.”
Zonder Ramirez
”Dᥱdιᥴᥲtᥱd to ᥲᥣᥣ thosᥱ brothᥱrs ᥕho,
for oᥒᥱ rᥱᥲsoᥒ or ᥲᥒothᥱr,
thᥱιr mᥱmorιᥱs hᥲvᥱ fᥲdᥱd.”
Zonder Ramirez
The English version differs from the original Spanish version because if I translate it literally, the meaning, rhythm and syllable count are lost.
𝙸𝚗 𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚎𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚜𝚊𝚝 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚕𝚋𝚞𝚖𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚢𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎. 𝙴𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚐𝚎, 𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍, 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚗𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎, 𝚏𝚛𝚊𝚐𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚕𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚎𝚛, 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚍𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎.
𝙻𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜, 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚝𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚕𝚢, 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚊 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚎𝚌𝚑𝚘 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍. 𝙷𝚎 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚑, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚕𝚝𝚢 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚣𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚊 𝚑𝚎 𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚎𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚍𝚢. 𝚈𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜, 𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚜𝚘 𝚟𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚍, 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚊𝚍𝚎, 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚋𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚘𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚗.
𝙴𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚍𝚊𝚢, 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚊𝚐𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍. 𝙵𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚜, 𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜. 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕, 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝, 𝚊 𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚔 𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍, 𝚊 𝚏𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚎𝚡𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚞𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍. 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚔, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜, 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕, 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚜.
𝙳𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚝, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚍, 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚍. 𝙸𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜, 𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚝𝚑 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚙𝚑𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜, 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝, 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚕 𝚔𝚎𝚙𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛. 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚘, 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚡𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎, 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚍, 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚐𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚟𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐.
Welcome everyone to this, my participation of the week in the Poetry Club hosted by the @freewritehouse community. Thanks to the #blockchainpoets community for allowing me to post here. If you’d like to join, there’s still time, here’s the link:
ℙ𝕠𝕖𝕥𝕣𝕪 ℂ𝕝𝕦𝕓
🔆****🔆****🔆****🔆****🔆****🔆****🔆****🔆****🔆****🔆
Dedicated to all those poets who contribute,
** day by day,**
to make our planet a better world.
𝙸𝚗 𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚎𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚜𝚊𝚝 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚕𝚋𝚞𝚖𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚢𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎. 𝙴𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚐𝚎, 𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍, 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚗𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎, 𝚏𝚛𝚊𝚐𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚕𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚎𝚛, 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚍𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎.
𝙻𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜, 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚝𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚕𝚢, 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚊 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚎𝚌𝚑𝚘 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍. 𝙷𝚎 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚑, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚕𝚝𝚢 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚣𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚊 𝚑𝚎 𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚎𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚍𝚢. 𝚈𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜, 𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚜𝚘 𝚟𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚍, 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚊𝚍𝚎, 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚋𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚘𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚗.
𝙴𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚍𝚊𝚢, 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚊𝚐𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍. 𝙵𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚜, 𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜. 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕, 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝, 𝚊 𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚔 𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍, 𝚊 𝚏𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚎𝚡𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚞𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍. 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚔, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜, 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕, 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚜.
𝙳𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚝, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚍, 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚍. 𝙸𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜, 𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚝𝚑 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚙𝚑𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜, 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝, 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚕 𝚔𝚎𝚙𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛. 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚘, 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚡𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎, 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚍, 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚐𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚟𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐.
Welcome everyone to this, my participation of the week in the Poetry Club hosted by the @freewritehouse community. Thanks to the #blockchainpoets community for allowing me to post here. If you’d like to join, there’s still time, here’s the link:
ℙ𝕠𝕖𝕥𝕣𝕪 ℂ𝕝𝕦𝕓
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Dedicated to all those poets who contribute,
** day by day,**
to make our planet a better world.
Dedicated to all those poets who contribute,
** day by day,**
to make our planet a better world.
Dedicated to all those poets who contribute,
** day by day,**
to make our planet a better world.
