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O diário de uma avó
e de um neto
A escritora Alice Vieira escreve, com Nelson Mateus, um diário sobre as suas recordações e sobre as memórias entre as diferentes gerações. O Diário de uma Avó e de um Neto, um projeto do site Retratos Contados
𝖰𝗎𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖽𝖺 𝖺𝗏𝗈́,
𝖣𝖾𝗉𝗈𝗂𝗌 𝖽𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗌 𝖺𝗍𝗂́𝗉𝗂𝖼𝗈𝗌, 𝖽𝖾𝗏𝗂𝖽𝗈 𝖺̀ 𝗉𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗆𝗂𝖺, 𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗆𝗈𝗌 𝖽𝖾 𝗏𝗈𝗅𝗍𝖺 𝖺̀ 𝖾́𝗉𝗈𝖼𝖺 𝖽𝖾 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗇𝖺𝗏𝖺𝗅.
𝖭𝗈𝗌 𝗎́𝗅𝗍𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗌 𝖽𝗈𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗌, 𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗎𝖾́𝗆 𝖽𝖾𝗎 𝗉𝗈𝗋 𝖾𝗅𝖾!
𝖤𝗎 𝗇𝖺̃𝗈 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗍𝖺 𝗇𝖾𝗇𝗁𝗎𝗆𝖺, 𝗉𝗈𝗂𝗌 𝗇𝗎𝗇𝖼𝖺 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗂 𝖽𝖾 𝖺𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾𝗌 𝗉𝖾𝗅𝖺 𝖿𝗈𝗅𝗂𝖺 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗇𝖺𝗏𝖺𝗅𝖾𝗌𝖼𝖺.
𝖱𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗈-𝗆𝖾 𝖽𝖾, 𝖾𝗆 𝖼𝗋𝗂𝖺𝗇𝖼̧𝖺, 𝗇𝖺̃𝗈 𝗌𝖾𝗂 𝖻𝖾𝗆 𝗉𝗈𝗋𝗊𝗎𝖾̂, 𝖺 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗁𝖺 𝗆𝖺̃𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗌𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖺𝗋-𝗆𝖾 𝖽𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗐𝖻𝗈𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝗈 𝖺𝗉𝗈́𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝗈. 𝖭𝖺̃𝗈 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝖺 𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗉𝖺 𝖿𝗈𝗌𝗌𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗋𝖾 𝖺 𝗆𝖾𝗌𝗆𝖺, 𝖺𝗍𝖾́ 𝗉𝗈𝗋𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝖽𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝗈 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖺 𝖺𝗇𝗈 𝖺𝗌 𝖼𝗋𝗂𝖺𝗇𝖼̧𝖺𝗌 𝖼𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖼𝖾𝗆 𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗈. 𝖭𝖾𝗆 𝗉𝗈𝗋 𝖾𝗎 𝗌𝖾𝗋 𝗎𝗆 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖾 𝖿𝖺̃ 𝖽𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗐𝖻𝗈𝗒𝗌. 𝖳𝖺𝗆𝖻𝖾́𝗆 𝗇𝖺̃𝗈 𝗆𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖼𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝖺 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗁𝖺 𝗆𝖺̃𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗌𝗌𝖾 𝖿𝖺̃ 𝖽𝖺 𝖿𝖺𝗆𝗈𝗌𝖺 𝗌𝖾́𝗋𝗂𝖾 𝖡𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗇𝗓𝖺, 𝖾𝗆𝖻𝗈𝗋𝖺 𝖺𝖼𝖺𝖻𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖾 𝗉𝗈𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝗓𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗋𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖿𝖾𝗋𝖾̂𝗇𝖼𝗂𝖺 𝖺̀ 𝗆𝖾𝗌𝗆𝖺 𝖾𝗇𝗊𝗎𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖺𝗏𝖺 𝗈𝗌 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝖿𝖺𝗋𝖼𝖾𝗌. 𝖠̀𝗌 𝗏𝖾𝗓𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝖺-𝗆𝖾 𝗎𝗆 𝗁𝗂́𝖻𝗋𝗂𝖽𝗈 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗋𝖾 𝖡𝖾𝗇 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝖽𝖺 𝗌𝖾́𝗋𝗂𝖾 𝖡𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗇𝗓𝖺, 𝖾 𝗈 𝖩.𝖱., 𝖽𝖺 𝖿𝖺𝗆𝗈𝗌𝖺 𝗌𝖾́𝗋𝗂𝖾 𝖣𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖺𝗌.
𝖮𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖺𝗆 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗈, 𝖾𝗎 𝖿𝗎𝗂 𝖼𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖼𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗈, 𝖾 𝖺 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗁𝖺 𝗆𝖺̃𝖾 (𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗓𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾) 𝖾𝗌𝗊𝗎𝖾𝖼𝖾𝗎 𝖺𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝖻𝗈𝗂𝖺𝖽𝖺𝗌!
𝖠𝗉𝖾𝗌𝖺𝗋 𝖽𝖾 𝗇𝖺̃𝗈 𝗀𝗈𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋 𝖽𝗈 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗇𝖺𝗏𝖺𝗅, 𝗇𝖺̃𝗈 𝗌𝖾𝗋 𝗎𝗆 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗅𝗂𝖺̃𝗈, 𝗇𝖾𝗆 𝗀𝗈𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗎𝗅𝖺𝗋𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾 𝖽𝖾 𝗆𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗌𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖺𝗋, 𝗈𝗌 𝖻𝖺𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝖽𝖾 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗇𝖺𝗏𝖺𝗅 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗌𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗓𝖺𝗏𝖺𝗆 𝖺𝗇𝗎𝖺𝗅𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾 𝗇𝖺 𝖢𝖺𝗌𝖺 𝖽𝗈 𝖯𝗈𝗏𝗈 𝗌𝖺̃𝗈 𝖽𝖺𝗌 𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗁𝗈𝗋𝖾𝗌 𝗆𝖾𝗆𝗈́𝗋𝗂𝖺𝗌 𝖽𝖾 𝖺𝖽𝗈𝗅𝖾𝗌𝖼𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗁𝗈. 𝖢𝗈𝗆𝖾𝖼̧𝖺𝗏𝖺𝗆 𝖺̀ 𝗌𝖾𝗑𝗍𝖺-𝖿𝖾𝗂𝗋𝖺 𝖾 𝗌𝗈́ 𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗏𝖺𝗆 𝗇𝖺 𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖼̧𝖺-𝖿𝖾𝗂𝗋𝖺 𝖽𝖾 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗇𝖺𝗏𝖺𝗅. 𝖤𝗋𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗈 𝗌𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗌𝗌𝖾 𝗎𝗆 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗂́𝗇𝗎𝗈. 𝖭𝗈 𝗌𝖺́𝖻𝖺𝖽𝗈 𝖾 𝗇𝖺 𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖼̧𝖺, 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖺 𝖺𝗅𝖾́𝗆 𝖽𝗈𝗌 𝖻𝖺𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝖺̀ 𝗇𝗈𝗂𝗍𝖾, 𝗍𝖺𝗆𝖻𝖾́𝗆 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝗂𝖺 𝖺𝗌 𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝖾́𝗌.
𝖠𝗉𝖾𝗌𝖺𝗋 𝖽𝖾 𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗆𝗈𝗌 𝗎𝗆 𝗉𝖺𝗂́𝗌 𝗍𝖺̃𝗈 𝗉𝖾𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗇𝗈, 𝗍𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗌 𝗏𝖺́𝗋𝗂𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝖽𝗂𝖼̧𝗈̃𝖾𝗌 𝖽𝖾 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗇𝖺𝗏𝖺𝗅. 𝖯𝗈𝗋 𝗌𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅, 𝖻𝖾𝗆 𝖽𝗂𝖿𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝗎𝗆𝖺𝗌 𝖽𝖺𝗌 𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗌. 𝖠𝗅𝗀𝗎𝗆𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝖺̃𝗈 𝗎𝗆𝖺 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖺 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖺 𝖽𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗓𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗅𝗀𝗈 𝗌𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾 𝖺𝗈 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝖺𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖼𝖾 𝗇𝗈 𝖡𝗋𝖺𝗌𝗂𝗅.
𝖭𝗎𝗇𝖼𝖺 𝖿𝗎𝗂 𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗌 𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗋𝖺𝖿𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗇𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝖳𝗈𝗋𝗋𝖾𝗌 𝖵𝖾𝖽𝗋𝖺𝗌, 𝗇𝖾𝗆 𝗈 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗇𝖺𝗏𝖺𝗅 𝖲𝖺𝗅𝗈𝗂𝗈 𝖺 𝖫𝗈𝗎𝗋𝖾𝗌, 𝗇𝖾𝗆 𝗈 𝖽𝖾 𝖫𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖾́, 𝖲𝖾𝗌𝗂𝗆𝖻𝗋𝖺, 𝖮𝗏𝖺𝗋, 𝖤𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗋𝖾𝗃𝖺, 𝖲𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗌, 𝖬𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗁𝖺𝖽𝖺… 𝖭𝖺𝖽𝖺!
𝖭𝗎𝗇𝖼𝖺 𝖿𝗎𝗂, 𝗇𝖾𝗆 𝗇𝗎𝗇𝖼𝖺 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂 𝗏𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝖽𝖾 𝗂𝗋 (𝗉𝖾𝗅𝗈𝗌 𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗌 𝖺𝗍𝖾́ 𝖺𝗀𝗈𝗋𝖺).
𝖤𝗑𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾 𝗍𝖺𝗆𝖻𝖾́𝗆 𝗈 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗇𝖺𝗏𝖺𝗅 𝖽𝖾 𝖯𝗈𝖽𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾, 𝖾𝗆 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗈𝗌 𝗋𝖺𝗉𝖺𝗓𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝖺𝖾𝗆 𝖺̀𝗌 𝗋𝗎𝖺𝗌 𝗏𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖽𝗈𝗌 𝖽𝖾 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗈𝗌. 𝖯𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗆 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗁𝗈𝗌 𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗁𝖺𝗌 𝖺̀ 𝖼𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖺 𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗈𝗌 𝖽𝖾 𝖾𝗇𝖾𝗋𝗀𝗂𝖺 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖼𝗈𝗋𝗋𝖾𝗆 𝖺 𝖺𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗂𝖺 𝖺𝗈𝗌 𝗌𝖺𝗅𝗍𝗈𝗌 𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗈𝗌, 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖻𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗈 𝖺 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗆𝖺 𝖽𝗂𝖺́𝗋𝗂𝖺. 𝖴𝗆 𝖽𝗈𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗂𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗂𝗏𝗈𝗌 𝖽𝖺𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗋𝗋𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖺𝗌 𝖾́ 𝖾𝗇𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗋 𝗋𝖺𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗀𝖺𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖺 𝖽𝖺𝗇𝖼̧𝖺𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗆 𝖾𝗅𝖺𝗌 𝖾 𝖺𝗌 “𝖼𝗁𝗈𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗁𝖺𝗋”. 𝖠𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗆 𝗌𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗍𝖾𝗆, 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗍𝖾𝗀𝗂𝖽𝗈𝗌 𝗉𝖾𝗅𝗈 𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗇𝗂𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗈.
𝖰𝗎𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗍𝗂𝖽𝗈!
𝖤𝗌𝗍𝖺́ 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝗈! 𝖭𝖺̃𝗈 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗋𝗈! 𝖢𝗁𝗈𝗏𝖾! 𝖮𝗇𝖽𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝖼𝖺 𝗈 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗈? 𝖲𝖺̃𝗈 𝗁𝗈𝗋𝖺𝗌 𝖽𝖾 𝖾𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖺… 𝖳𝗎𝖽𝗈 𝗍𝖾𝗆 𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗏𝗂𝖽𝗈 𝖽𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝖼𝗎𝗅𝗉𝖺.
𝖢𝗈𝗇𝖿𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗈 𝗊𝗎𝖾 (𝗉𝖾𝗅𝗈 𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗌 𝗎𝗆𝖺 𝗏𝖾𝗓) 𝗀𝗈𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗂𝖺 𝖽𝖾 𝗂𝗋 𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝖿𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗈 𝖥𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗅. 𝖯𝖾𝗅𝗈 𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗌 𝗈 𝖼𝗅𝗂𝗆𝖺 𝖾́ 𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗈! 𝖬𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝖺̃𝗈 𝖿𝖺𝖼̧𝗈 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖺̃𝗈 𝖽𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝖿𝗂𝗅𝖺𝗋!
𝖩𝖺́ 𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗂 𝗎𝗆𝖺 𝗏𝖾𝗓 𝖺𝗈 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗇𝖺𝗏𝖺𝗅 𝗇𝗈 𝖲𝖺𝗆𝖻𝗈́𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗆𝗈 𝗇𝗈 𝖱𝗂𝗈 𝖽𝖾 𝖩𝖺𝗇𝖾𝗂𝗋𝗈. 𝖬𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗈 𝖿𝗂𝖼𝖺 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗋 𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗌 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗇𝖺𝗏𝖺𝗂𝗌.
𝖭𝖺̃𝗈 𝗀𝗈𝗌𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝗈 𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗇𝖺𝗏𝖺𝗅. 𝖬𝖺𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗂𝗍𝗈 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗆 𝗀𝗈𝗌𝗍𝖾!
* Activista social, projectos solidários, escritor
𝚀𝚞𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚘 𝚗𝚎𝚝𝚘,
𝙽𝚎𝚖 𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚎𝚖 𝙲𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚟𝚊𝚕! 𝙾𝚍𝚎𝚒𝚘 𝚘 𝙲𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚟𝚊𝚕. 𝙴́ 𝚞𝚖 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚞𝚖𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚏𝚊̂𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚊, 𝚎 𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚞𝚖𝚊𝚜 𝚗𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚖.
𝙰𝚜 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚒𝚊𝚜 𝚟𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚊𝚖 𝚘 𝚊𝚗𝚘 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚘 (𝚘𝚞 𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚜𝚎…) 𝚊 𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚊𝚛 𝚗𝚘 𝙲𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚟𝚊𝚕. (𝚂𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚖 𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚊𝚜 𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚖 𝚊 𝚊𝚕𝚐𝚞𝚖𝚊 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚋𝚊 𝚗𝚊̃𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚖 𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚍𝚊𝚜 𝚊̀ 𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚊…)
𝙰𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚖, 𝚍𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚎𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚊𝚟𝚊𝚖-𝚜𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚊𝚜 𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚊𝚜 𝚗𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚊𝚕𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚘 𝙼𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚞 𝚍𝚎 𝙰𝚛𝚝𝚎 𝙰𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚐𝚊, 𝚖𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚕 𝚎 𝚕𝚊́𝚙𝚒𝚜, 𝚎 𝚒𝚊𝚖 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚘𝚜 𝚏𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚜 𝚍𝚊𝚜 𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚊𝚜, 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚜𝚊𝚜, 𝚍𝚊𝚖𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚟𝚘𝚊𝚟𝚊𝚖 𝚘𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚍𝚛𝚘𝚜. 𝙴 𝚕𝚊́ 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚑𝚒𝚊𝚖 𝚊 “𝚍𝚊𝚖𝚊 𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚐𝚊” 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚊𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚕𝚎 𝙲𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚟𝚊𝚕.
𝚂𝚎𝚐𝚞𝚒𝚊𝚖-𝚜𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚜 𝚍𝚒𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚍𝚘𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚖 𝚊 𝙼𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚊 𝙻𝚞𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚊, 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚎𝚛𝚊 𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚊 𝚕𝚊́ 𝚍𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚊, 𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚟𝚊 𝚍𝚒𝚊𝚜 𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚛 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚛 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚘𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎 𝚒𝚐𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚊𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚍𝚛𝚘.
𝙳𝚎𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚊 𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚊 𝚘 𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚛 𝚍𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚊. 𝙿𝚘𝚛𝚚𝚞𝚎, 𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎, 𝚞𝚖𝚊 𝚍𝚊𝚖𝚊 𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚐𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚜𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚣𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚎, 𝚗𝚊̃𝚘 𝚞𝚜𝚊𝚟𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚘 𝚊̀ 𝙱𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚣 𝙲𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚊, 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚎𝚞.
𝙴𝚗𝚝𝚊̃𝚘 𝚕𝚊́ 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚊́𝚟𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚜 𝚞𝚗𝚜 𝚍𝚒𝚊𝚜 𝚗𝚞𝚖𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚞𝚐𝚊𝚟𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚊𝚜, 𝚗𝚞𝚖 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚖 𝚍𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚊 𝚎 𝚙𝚘̃𝚎, 𝚎 𝚘𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚑𝚘𝚜 𝚜𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚊̃𝚘𝚜 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚡𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚘 𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕.
𝚀𝚞𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚟𝚊 𝚊 𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚌̧𝚊-𝚏𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝙲𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚟𝚊𝚕 𝚕𝚊́ 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚊́𝚟𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚜 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚘 𝙲𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚖𝚊 𝙿𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚖𝚊, 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚣𝚊𝚟𝚊 𝚜𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚛𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚊𝚜, 𝚌𝚘𝚖 𝚊 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚋𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚍𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚜 𝚙𝚛𝚎́𝚖𝚒𝚘𝚜 𝚊𝚘𝚜 𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚍𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚜. 𝙼𝚎𝚜𝚖𝚘, 𝚖𝚎𝚜𝚖𝚘 𝚗𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚖 (𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚗𝚒𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚟𝚊 𝚟𝚊́𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚜) 𝚕𝚊́ 𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚟𝚊 𝚘 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚎.
𝙴 𝚎𝚞 — 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚍𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎 𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚘𝚍𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚒́𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚓𝚊 𝚍𝚘𝚜 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚜 𝚖𝚒𝚞́𝚍𝚘𝚜, 𝚗𝚊̃𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚘𝚜, 𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚗𝚊̃𝚘 𝚖𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚍𝚒𝚊 𝚖𝚎𝚡𝚎𝚛, 𝚗𝚎𝚖 𝚙𝚘𝚍𝚒𝚊 𝚟𝚒𝚛𝚊𝚛 𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚋𝚎𝚌̧𝚊, 𝚗𝚎𝚖 𝚜𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚊 𝚍𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚒𝚝𝚘 𝚊 𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚊 𝚊𝚘 𝚋𝚊𝚛, — 𝚕𝚊́ 𝚜𝚞𝚋𝚒𝚊 𝚊𝚘 𝚙𝚊𝚕𝚌𝚘, 𝚗𝚘 𝚖𝚎𝚒𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚘𝚝𝚊𝚜, 𝚟𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚜, 𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚗𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚊𝚜, 𝚖𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚕𝚊𝚜, 𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚒́ 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚊.
𝙴 𝚎𝚞 𝚐𝚊𝚗𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚊 𝚜𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚛𝚎. 𝚃𝚘𝚍𝚘𝚜 𝚘𝚜 𝙲𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚟𝚊𝚒𝚜.
𝙳𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚜 𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚜 (𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚖 𝚊𝚝𝚎́ 𝚊𝚘𝚜 𝚖𝚎𝚞𝚜 𝟿 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚜), 𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚒𝚊𝚜 𝚗𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚖 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚒𝚛 𝚊𝚘 𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚖𝚊.
𝚂𝚎 𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚘 𝚗𝚊̃𝚘 𝚜𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚖𝚊 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚌̧𝚊̃𝚘 𝚍𝚘 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚊𝚕𝚑𝚘 𝚒𝚗𝚏𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕… 𝚗𝚊̃𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚒 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚛𝚘 𝚗𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚕𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚒-𝚍𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚖𝚊𝚛.
𝙾𝚍𝚎𝚒𝚘 𝚘 𝙲𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚟𝚊𝚕!
𝚃𝚎𝚗𝚑𝚘 𝚍𝚒𝚝𝚘.
* Escritora
IN "VISÃO" -17/02/23 .
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