°•|| "𝘘𝘶𝘦𝘭 𝘥𝘰𝘯 𝘭𝘶𝘪 𝘧𝘢𝘪𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘶 𝘥é𝘤𝘭𝘪𝘯 𝘥𝘦 𝘭'𝘢𝘯𝘯é𝘦?
𝘓𝘦 𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘥'𝘩𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘢 𝘣𝘳û𝘭é 𝘭𝘦 𝘨𝘢𝘻𝘰𝘯,
𝘓𝘢 𝘧𝘭𝘦𝘶𝘳 𝘯'𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘱𝘭𝘶𝘴 𝘦𝘵 𝘭𝘢 𝘧𝘦𝘶𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘦 𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘧𝘢𝘯é𝘦,
𝘙𝘪𝘦𝘯 𝘥𝘦 𝘷𝘪𝘷𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘥𝘢𝘯𝘴 𝘭𝘢 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘪𝘴𝘰𝘯..."

𝘌𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘶𝘭𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘥'𝘶𝘯𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘣𝘪𝘦𝘯-𝘢𝘪𝘮é𝘦
𝘋𝘦 𝘷𝘰𝘵𝘳𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘣𝘪𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘶𝘹 𝘦𝘵 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘦𝘶𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘵,
𝘝𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘳é𝘷𝘦𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘻 𝘥𝘢𝘯𝘴 𝘴𝘢 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘤𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘢𝘶𝘮é𝘦
𝘛𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘶𝘯 𝘗𝘢𝘴𝘴é 𝘥'𝘢𝘮𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘲𝘶𝘪 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘢𝘪𝘵...

𝘛𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘶𝘯 𝘗𝘢𝘴𝘴é 𝘥𝘦 𝘫𝘦𝘶𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘦 𝘦𝘵 𝘥𝘦 𝘷𝘪𝘦,
𝘛𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘶𝘯 𝘗𝘢𝘴𝘴é 𝘲𝘶𝘪 𝘯𝘦 𝘱𝘦𝘶𝘵 𝘴'𝘰𝘶𝘣𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘳...
𝘌𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘯𝘵 𝘭𝘢 𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘳𝘦 𝘶𝘯 𝘮𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘶𝘦𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘦
𝘙𝘦𝘭𝘶𝘪𝘵 𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘥𝘢𝘯𝘴 𝘤𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘥è𝘭𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘣𝘪𝘦𝘳...

𝘝𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘺 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘻 𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘭𝘲𝘶𝘦 𝘥é𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘴 𝘥𝘦 𝘵𝘪𝘨𝘦 -
𝘌𝘵 𝘵𝘰𝘶𝘵 à 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘱 𝘷𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘺 𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘷𝘦𝘻 𝘥𝘦𝘶𝘹 𝘧𝘭𝘦𝘶𝘳𝘴...
𝘌𝘵 𝘥𝘢𝘯𝘴 𝘮𝘢 𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘱𝘢𝘳 𝘶𝘯 𝘴𝘦𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘵 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘥𝘪𝘨𝘦
𝘝𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘷𝘰𝘺𝘦𝘻 𝘳𝘦𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘳𝘦 𝘭𝘦𝘶𝘳𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘦𝘶𝘳𝘴.

𝘊'é𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘥𝘦𝘶𝘹 𝘧𝘭𝘦𝘶𝘳𝘴: 𝘭'𝘶𝘯𝘦 𝘦𝘵 𝘭'𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘳𝘦 é𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘵
𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘦,
𝘋'𝘶𝘯 𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘦 𝘷𝘪𝘧, 𝘥'𝘶𝘯 é𝘤𝘭𝘢𝘵 𝘱𝘦𝘶 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘶𝘯...
𝘓𝘢 𝘳𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘦 𝘦𝘵 𝘭'𝘰𝘦𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘵 é𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘦,
𝘛𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘥𝘦𝘶𝘹 𝘣𝘢𝘪𝘨𝘯é𝘴 𝘥𝘦 𝘧𝘭𝘢𝘮𝘮𝘦 𝘦𝘵 𝘥𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘧𝘶𝘮...

𝘌𝘵 𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘥𝘦 𝘤𝘦 𝘮𝘺𝘴𝘵è𝘳𝘦 é𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦
𝘝𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘷𝘰𝘶𝘥𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘻 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘯𝘢î𝘵𝘳𝘦 𝘭𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘴...
𝘗𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘲𝘶𝘰𝘪 𝘧𝘢𝘶𝘵-𝘪𝘭 𝘷𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘭'𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘭𝘪𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘳, 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦?..
𝘝𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘻. 𝘌𝘩 𝘣𝘪𝘦𝘯 𝘴𝘰𝘪𝘵, 𝘫'𝘺 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘴.

𝘓𝘰𝘳𝘴𝘲𝘶'𝘶𝘯𝘦 𝘧𝘭𝘦𝘶𝘳, 𝘤𝘦 𝘧𝘳ê𝘭𝘦 𝘦𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘶𝘹 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘨𝘦.
𝘗𝘦𝘳𝘥 𝘴𝘦𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘦𝘶𝘳𝘴, 𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘶𝘪𝘵 𝘦𝘵 𝘴𝘦 𝘧𝘭é𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘵,
𝘘𝘶𝘦 𝘥𝘶 𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘴𝘪𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘯 𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘤𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢 𝘵𝘪𝘨𝘦,
𝘓𝘢 𝘱𝘢𝘶𝘷𝘳𝘦 𝘧𝘭𝘦𝘶𝘳 𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘵ô𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘧𝘭𝘦𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘵...

𝘌𝘵 𝘤'𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘪 𝘲𝘶𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘶𝘫𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴 𝘴'𝘢𝘤𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘵
𝘈𝘶 𝘫𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘧𝘢𝘵𝘢𝘭 𝘦𝘵 𝘳ê𝘷𝘦𝘴 𝘦𝘵 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘴...
𝘘𝘶𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘥𝘢𝘯𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘦𝘶𝘳𝘴 𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘳𝘴 𝘱â𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘵.
𝘓𝘢 𝘔𝘰𝘳𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘧𝘢𝘪𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘧𝘭𝘦𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘳 𝘥𝘢𝘯𝘴 𝘴𝘦𝘴 𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘴...