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24/10/2023
SHAHD WADI
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A chuva de Jasmim
𝘖 𝘮𝘦𝘶 𝘵𝘦𝘹𝘵𝘰 𝘦́ 𝘶𝘮 𝘱𝘰𝘷𝘰.
𝘕𝘢̃𝘰 𝘷𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘪𝘻𝘦𝘳.
𝘚𝘰́ 𝘰 𝘯𝘶𝘯𝘤𝘢 𝘪𝘳𝘢́ 𝘵𝘪𝘳𝘢𝘳 𝘢 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘩𝘢 𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘷𝘢 𝘢𝘱𝘰́𝘴 𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘷𝘢 𝘥𝘰 𝘴𝘦𝘶 𝘦𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘷𝘢𝘥𝘰 𝘰𝘤𝘰 𝘦𝘹𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦 𝘷𝘢𝘻𝘪𝘰.
𝘕𝘢̃𝘰 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘶𝘯𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘪 𝘲𝘶𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘰𝘴 𝘴𝘢̃𝘰. 𝘕𝘢̃𝘰 𝘥𝘦𝘤𝘭𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘪 𝘶𝘮 𝘯𝘶́𝘮𝘦𝘳𝘰 𝘲𝘶𝘦, 𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘰, 𝘮𝘶𝘥𝘰𝘶, 𝘲𝘶𝘦, 𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘰, 𝘮𝘶𝘥𝘰𝘶, 𝘲𝘶𝘦, 𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘰, 𝘮𝘶𝘥𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘦 𝘱𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘰𝘢𝘴 𝘲𝘶𝘦 𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘮. 𝘗𝘰𝘳 𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘮 𝘱𝘢𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘢𝘯𝘢𝘴, 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘢 𝘴𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘳𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘢𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘮 𝘥𝘰 𝘭𝘶𝘨𝘢𝘳 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘢 𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘦 𝘧𝘶𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘢𝘮. 𝘔𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘮 𝘴𝘦𝘮 𝘫𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘳. 𝘕𝘢 𝘴𝘶𝘢 𝘨𝘢𝘳𝘨𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘢, 𝘯𝘦𝘮 𝘴𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘳 𝘶𝘮 𝘤𝘶𝘴𝘱𝘰 𝘥𝘦 𝘢́𝘨𝘶𝘢. 𝘕𝘢̃𝘰 𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘪 𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘯𝘢́-𝘭𝘢𝘴, 𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘴 𝘶𝘮𝘢 𝘷𝘦𝘻, 𝘯𝘶𝘮 𝘯𝘶́𝘮𝘦𝘳𝘰 𝘦𝘹𝘪𝘭𝘢𝘥𝘰, 𝘢𝘨𝘰𝘳𝘢 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘢 𝘶𝘮𝘢 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘪́𝘤𝘪𝘢 𝘥𝘦 𝘳𝘰𝘥𝘢𝘱𝘦́.
𝘘𝘶𝘢𝘭 𝘱𝘰𝘦𝘮𝘢, 𝘱𝘢́! 𝘕𝘢̃𝘰 𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘪 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘩𝘢𝘳 𝘩𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘰́𝘳𝘪𝘢𝘴 𝘥𝘦 𝘢𝘮𝘰𝘳, 𝘥𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘦𝘮 𝘦 𝘥𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘦̂𝘯𝘤𝘪𝘢. 𝘘𝘶𝘦 𝘴𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘥𝘢 𝘢 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘦̂𝘯𝘤𝘪𝘢. 𝘖 𝘮𝘦𝘶 𝘴𝘦𝘳 𝘫𝘢́ 𝘧𝘶𝘪 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘪𝘥𝘰 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦 𝘶𝘮 𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘮𝘰, 𝘮𝘢𝘴 𝘢𝘵𝘦́ 𝘢𝘴 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘱𝘢𝘭𝘢𝘷𝘳𝘢𝘴 𝘫𝘢́ 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘢𝘮 𝘦𝘹𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘥𝘢𝘴.
𝘖 𝘮𝘦𝘶 𝘵𝘦𝘹𝘵𝘰 𝘫𝘢́ 𝘧𝘰𝘪 𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘥𝘰.
𝘖 𝘯𝘰́ 𝘯𝘢 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘩𝘢 𝘨𝘢𝘳𝘨𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘢 𝘦́ 𝘢𝘨𝘰𝘳𝘢 𝘶𝘮𝘢 𝘷𝘢𝘭𝘢 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘶𝘮: “𝘋𝘦 𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘦𝘨𝘢𝘳 𝘤𝘢𝘪𝘹𝘰̃𝘦𝘴 𝘥𝘰𝘴 𝘮𝘦𝘶𝘴 𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘨𝘰𝘴, 𝘮𝘦𝘶 𝘰𝘮𝘣𝘳𝘰 𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘯𝘰𝘶-𝘴𝘦 𝘤𝘦𝘮𝘪𝘵𝘦́𝘳𝘪𝘰.” 𝘘𝘶𝘦 𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘰 𝘢𝘨𝘶𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘢 𝘢𝘰 𝘭𝘢𝘥𝘰 𝘥𝘢 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘨𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘢: “𝘱𝘢𝘪, 𝘰𝘴 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘰𝘴 𝘷𝘢̃𝘰 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘢 𝘰 𝘤𝘦́𝘶, 𝘰 𝘮𝘦𝘴𝘮𝘰 𝘭𝘶𝘨𝘢𝘳 𝘥𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘴 𝘤𝘢𝘦𝘮 𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘰𝘮𝘣𝘢𝘴?”.
𝘈 𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘨𝘢 𝘫𝘢́ 𝘯𝘢̃𝘰 𝘦́ 𝘶𝘮𝘢 𝘢𝘳𝘮𝘢.
𝘕𝘢𝘥𝘢 𝘪𝘳𝘢́ 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘶𝘱𝘪𝘳 𝘢 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘩𝘢 𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘢 𝘧𝘢𝘭𝘢 𝘲𝘶𝘦 𝘦𝘮 𝘴𝘦 𝘮𝘪𝘮 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘢. 𝘕𝘶𝘯𝘤𝘢 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘦𝘨𝘶𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘪 𝘤𝘭𝘢𝘮𝘢𝘳 𝘥𝘦 𝘷𝘰𝘭𝘵𝘢, 𝘢𝘰𝘴 𝘰𝘶𝘷𝘪𝘥𝘰𝘴 𝘥𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘣𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘥𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘥𝘰𝘴, 𝘰𝘴 𝘨𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘰𝘴 𝘲𝘶𝘦 𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘢𝘮 𝘯𝘰 𝘮𝘦𝘶 𝘤𝘰𝘳𝘱𝘰 𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘱𝘪𝘥𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦: “𝘌𝘴𝘵𝘢 𝘤𝘪𝘯𝘻𝘢 𝘦𝘳𝘢 𝘶𝘮𝘢 𝘷𝘦𝘻 𝘰 𝘮𝘦𝘶 𝘧𝘪𝘭𝘩𝘰.”
𝘗𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘢. 𝘖 𝘮𝘦𝘶 𝘵𝘦𝘹𝘵𝘰 𝘦́ 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘦̂𝘯𝘤𝘪𝘰.
𝘈𝘵𝘦́ 𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘦 𝘱𝘰𝘥𝘦 𝘪𝘳 𝘰 𝘧𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘰 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘦 𝘢𝘣𝘪𝘴𝘮𝘰? 𝘕𝘢̃𝘰 𝘮𝘦 𝘷𝘰𝘶 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘶𝘯𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘳 𝘴𝘰𝘣𝘳𝘦 𝘰𝘴 𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘩𝘢𝘤̧𝘰𝘴 𝘥𝘢𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘪́𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘴 𝘲𝘶𝘦 𝘧𝘶𝘳𝘢𝘮 𝘢𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘢𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘨𝘶𝘯𝘴 𝘰𝘭𝘩𝘰𝘴. 𝘕𝘢̃𝘰 𝘷𝘰𝘶 𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘶𝘳𝘳𝘢𝘳 𝘰𝘴 𝘤𝘢𝘥𝘢́𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘴 𝘥𝘢 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘩𝘢 𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘢 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘯𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘰𝘤𝘢𝘴 𝘪𝘮𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘢𝘴, 𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘷𝘢𝘳 𝘲𝘶𝘦 𝘯𝘰́𝘴 𝘯𝘢̃𝘰 𝘯𝘰𝘴 𝘴𝘶𝘧𝘰𝘤𝘢́𝘮𝘰𝘴 𝘢 𝘯𝘰́𝘴.
𝘖́ 𝘮𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘰, 𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘢́𝘴 𝘢𝘪́?
𝘖 𝘫𝘰𝘳𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘢 𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘢́ 𝘢 𝘢𝘯𝘶𝘯𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘳 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦 𝘢 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘨𝘢𝘥𝘢 𝘥𝘢 𝘶́𝘯𝘪𝘤𝘢 𝘴𝘰𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦: “𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘶𝘦́𝘮 𝘴𝘢𝘣𝘦 𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘮 𝘦́, 𝘯𝘦𝘮 𝘦𝘭𝘢 𝘱𝘳𝘰́𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘢.”
𝘖 𝘮𝘦𝘶 𝘵𝘦𝘹𝘵𝘰 𝘦́ 𝘶𝘮𝘢 𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘰́𝘨𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘢.
𝘕𝘢̃𝘰 𝘷𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘮𝘢𝘳 𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘶𝘦́𝘮 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘢 𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘳 𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘴, 𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘴, 𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘴 𝘷𝘪𝘥𝘢𝘴 𝘲𝘶𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘪́𝘳𝘢𝘮 𝘯𝘰𝘴 𝘮𝘦𝘶𝘴 𝘥𝘦𝘥𝘰𝘴 𝘢𝘵𝘢𝘥𝘰𝘴 𝘢 𝘶𝘮 𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘮𝘰́𝘷𝘦𝘭. 𝘕𝘢̃𝘰 𝘷𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘷𝘢𝘳 𝘲𝘶𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦 𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘮 𝘷𝘪𝘥𝘢𝘴, 𝘯𝘦𝘮 𝘴𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘶𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘢𝘴.
𝘑𝘢𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘪 𝘧𝘪𝘭𝘩𝘢 𝘥𝘦 𝘶𝘮 𝘳𝘦𝘧𝘶𝘨𝘪𝘢𝘥𝘰 𝘱𝘢𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘢𝘯𝘰, 𝘢𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘢𝘴 𝘧𝘪𝘭𝘩𝘢 𝘥𝘢 𝘱𝘶𝘵𝘢.
𝘕𝘢̃𝘰 𝘷𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘢 𝘧𝘰𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘢 𝘌𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦, 𝘤𝘰𝘮 𝘶𝘮 𝘯𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘦𝘮 𝘴𝘪 𝘭𝘰𝘪𝘳𝘰, 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘢 𝘤𝘰𝘮 𝘰 𝘴𝘦𝘶 𝘱𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘯𝘰 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘶, 𝘯𝘦𝘮 𝘴𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘳 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘮𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘳 𝘥𝘦 𝘴𝘰́ 𝘱𝘦𝘭𝘰𝘴 𝘴𝘦𝘶𝘴 𝘰𝘭𝘩𝘰𝘴 𝘢𝘻𝘶𝘪𝘴 𝘢 𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘮: 𝘦𝘳𝘢 𝘮𝘦𝘴𝘮𝘰 𝘶𝘮𝘢 𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘢. 𝘕𝘢̃𝘰 𝘷𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘥𝘶𝘻𝘪𝘳 𝘰 𝘵𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘦 𝘏𝘢𝘺𝘢, 𝘢 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘣𝘶𝘪𝘤̧𝘢̃𝘰 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵𝘢 𝘥𝘰𝘴 𝘴𝘦𝘶𝘴 𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘥𝘰𝘴 𝘦 𝘥𝘢 𝘱𝘰𝘶𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘤̧𝘢 𝘥𝘰 𝘴𝘦𝘶 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳𝘰 𝘲𝘶𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘰𝘣𝘦𝘥𝘦𝘤𝘦 𝘢 𝘲𝘶𝘢𝘭𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘢𝘤̧𝘢̃𝘰. 𝘖 𝘮𝘦𝘶 𝘵𝘦𝘹𝘵𝘰 𝘦́ 𝘶𝘮 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳𝘰. 𝘡𝘦𝘪𝘯 𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘶 𝘰 𝘴𝘦𝘶 𝘯𝘰𝘴 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘤̧𝘰𝘴 𝘥𝘢 𝘴𝘶𝘢 𝘤𝘢𝘴𝘢, 𝘮𝘢𝘴 𝘢𝘨𝘰𝘳𝘢 𝘯𝘢𝘥𝘢 𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘳𝘢𝘳 𝘢 𝘤𝘢𝘮𝘢 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘢 𝘢 𝘲𝘶𝘢𝘭 𝘱𝘰𝘶𝘱𝘢𝘷𝘢. 𝘌𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘢́ 𝘰 𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘰 𝘴𝘦𝘮 𝘯𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘢 𝘢 𝘦𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘷𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘰 𝘰𝘴 𝘦𝘴𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘴 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘢 𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘳 𝘢 𝘴𝘶𝘢 𝘧𝘢𝘮𝘪́𝘭𝘪𝘢?
𝘖 𝘮𝘦𝘶 𝘵𝘦𝘹𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘢̃𝘰 𝘦𝘴𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘴 𝘴𝘦𝘮 𝘯𝘰𝘮𝘦.
𝘕𝘢̃𝘰 𝘷𝘰𝘶. 𝘕𝘢̃𝘰 𝘷𝘰𝘶 𝘯𝘦𝘮 𝘴𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘳 𝘦𝘴𝘷𝘢𝘻𝘪𝘢𝘳 𝘢𝘲𝘶𝘪 𝘰𝘴 𝘴𝘢𝘤𝘰𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘭𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘰𝘴 𝘥𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘴 𝘥𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘭𝘩𝘰𝘴, 𝘴𝘢̃𝘰 𝘢𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘢𝘤𝘰𝘴 𝘦 𝘥𝘦 𝘱𝘭𝘢́𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘰, 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘰𝘴 𝘥𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘹𝘰 𝘩𝘶𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘰: 𝘯𝘰́𝘴.
𝘖 𝘮𝘦𝘶 𝘵𝘦𝘹𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘰𝘴 𝘯𝘰́𝘴 𝘦𝘮 𝘴𝘢𝘤𝘰𝘴 𝘥𝘦 𝘱𝘭𝘢́𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘰.
𝘈 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘩𝘢 𝘷𝘰𝘻 𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘰𝘶 𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘤𝘢 𝘥𝘦 𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘻𝘢𝘳 𝘢𝘴 𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘶́𝘴𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘢𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘴 𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘮𝘰𝘴 𝘥𝘪𝘵𝘰𝘴 𝘤𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘰𝘴: 𝘋𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘪𝘵𝘰 𝘐𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘯𝘢𝘤𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭, 𝘙𝘦𝘴𝘰𝘭𝘶𝘤̧𝘰̃𝘦𝘴 𝘥𝘢𝘴 𝘕𝘢𝘤̧𝘰̃𝘦𝘴 𝘜𝘯𝘪𝘥𝘢𝘴, 𝘈𝘶𝘵𝘰𝘥𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘤̧𝘢̃𝘰, 𝘮𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘮𝘪𝘮 𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘮 𝘮𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘢?
𝘖 𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘨𝘰 𝘥𝘦 𝘕𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘶 𝘵𝘰𝘥𝘰𝘴 𝘰𝘴 𝘴𝘦𝘶𝘴 𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘨𝘰𝘴, “𝘶𝘮 𝘣𝘢𝘪𝘳𝘳𝘰 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘪𝘶-𝘴𝘦.” 𝘖 𝘮𝘦𝘶 𝘵𝘦𝘹𝘵𝘰 𝘦́ 𝘶𝘮 𝘣𝘢𝘪𝘳𝘳𝘰.
𝘌𝘯𝘤𝘰𝘴𝘵𝘰 𝘰 𝘮𝘦𝘶 𝘦𝘤𝘳𝘢̃ 𝘢𝘰 𝘰𝘮𝘣𝘳𝘰 𝘥𝘢 𝘔𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘢𝘮 𝘦𝘯𝘲𝘶𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘢 “𝘯𝘦𝘮 𝘴𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘳 𝘱𝘦𝘭𝘰 𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘳 𝘲𝘶𝘦 𝘴𝘦 𝘢𝘣𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘶 𝘴𝘰𝘣𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘰́𝘴, 𝘮𝘢𝘴 𝘱𝘦𝘭𝘢 𝘯𝘦𝘨𝘢𝘤̧𝘢̃𝘰 𝘥𝘦 𝘲𝘶𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘴 𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘫𝘢 𝘢 𝘢𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘤𝘦𝘳.” 𝘚𝘢𝘮𝘢𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘯𝘢̃𝘰 𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘰 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘶, “𝘥𝘦𝘪𝘹𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘰 𝘦𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘱𝘢𝘳 𝘢𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘢𝘴 𝘥𝘶𝘢𝘴 𝘱𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘯𝘢𝘴 𝘭𝘢́𝘨𝘳𝘪𝘮𝘢𝘴 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘴, 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘢 𝘲𝘶𝘦 𝘢 𝘣𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘦𝘮 𝘯𝘢̃𝘰 𝘴𝘦 𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘢 𝘤𝘰𝘮 𝘰𝘴 𝘴𝘦𝘶𝘴 𝘨𝘦𝘮𝘪𝘥𝘰𝘴.” 𝘚𝘦𝘮 𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘢𝘳 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘶-𝘴𝘦 𝘥𝘢 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘦, 𝘢𝘣𝘥𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘰 𝘥𝘰 𝘥𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘪𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘦 𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘢, 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘰 𝘰 𝘴𝘦𝘶 𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘢 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘦𝘨𝘢𝘳, 𝘲𝘶𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘨𝘢 𝘢𝘰 𝘮𝘦𝘶 𝘦𝘤𝘳𝘢̃ 𝘥𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦 𝘥𝘦 𝘎𝘢𝘻𝘢.
𝘖 𝘮𝘦𝘶 𝘵𝘦𝘹𝘵𝘰 𝘦́ 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘦𝘨𝘢𝘥𝘰 𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘦𝘨𝘢𝘥𝘰 𝘥𝘦 𝘎𝘢𝘻𝘢.
𝘋𝘰𝘪𝘴 𝘭𝘢𝘥𝘰𝘴? 𝘕𝘢̃𝘰, 𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘳𝘰 𝘥𝘢 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘩𝘢 𝘢𝘭𝘮𝘢 𝘫𝘢𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘴 𝘷𝘢𝘪 𝘳𝘦𝘱𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘳: 𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘢̃𝘰 𝘢 𝘤𝘦́𝘶 𝘢𝘣𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘰, 𝘢𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘥, 𝘰𝘤𝘶𝘱𝘢𝘥𝘰 – 𝘰𝘤𝘶𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦, 𝘰𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘮𝘪𝘥𝘰 – 𝘰𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘰𝘳, 𝘕𝘢𝘬𝘣𝘢, 𝘕𝘢𝘬𝘴𝘢, 𝟣𝟫𝟦𝟪, 𝟣𝟫𝟨𝟩, 𝟤𝟢𝟤𝟥, 𝘮𝘢𝘴 𝘱𝘰𝘳𝘲𝘶𝘦 𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘰 𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘦 𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘳𝘢𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘰 𝘯𝘢̃𝘰 𝘢𝘣𝘢𝘯𝘢 𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘶𝘦́𝘮?
𝘔𝘦𝘶 𝘵𝘦𝘹𝘵𝘰 𝘦́ 𝘶𝘮 𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘳𝘢𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘰.
𝘗𝘰𝘳𝘲𝘶𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘭𝘢𝘳 𝘥𝘰𝘴 𝘴𝘰𝘯𝘩𝘰𝘴 𝘥𝘦 𝘍𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘩 𝘴𝘦 𝘢𝘨𝘰𝘳𝘢 𝘴𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘶𝘮𝘦𝘮 𝘢 𝘶𝘮 𝘮𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘪𝘢́𝘳𝘪𝘰 𝘦𝘮 𝘲𝘶𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘦𝘣𝘦 𝘢 𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘢𝘨𝘦𝘮: “𝘌𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘢 𝘷𝘪𝘷𝘢”. 𝘘𝘶𝘢𝘭𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘳 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘢 𝘦́ 𝘶𝘮𝘢 𝘱𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘭 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘢, 𝘲𝘶𝘢𝘭𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘦́ 𝘶𝘮 𝘱𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘭 𝘮𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘰, 𝘮𝘦𝘴𝘮𝘰 𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘮, 𝘯𝘶𝘮 𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘮𝘢 𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘢𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘴𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦 𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘴𝘪́𝘷𝘦𝘭, 𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘦 𝘶𝘮 𝘣𝘰𝘮𝘣𝘢𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘦 𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘳𝘰, 𝘢 𝘮𝘢̃𝘦 𝘥𝘦 𝘒𝘢𝘸𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘯𝘢̃𝘰 𝘴𝘦 𝘦𝘴𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘤𝘦 𝘥𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘢̃𝘦: “𝘲𝘶𝘦 𝘦́ 𝘧𝘦𝘪𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘢 𝘵𝘶𝘢 𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘢, 𝘧𝘪𝘭𝘩𝘢?”.
“𝘍𝘪𝘥𝘢 𝘍𝘢𝘭𝘢𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘯. 𝘗𝘢𝘳𝘢 𝘵𝘪 𝘗𝘢𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘢,” 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘦 𝘰 𝘩𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘮 𝘲𝘶𝘦 𝘱𝘰𝘶𝘱𝘰𝘶 𝟦𝟢 𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘴 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘢 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘪𝘳 𝘢 𝘤𝘢𝘴𝘢 𝘲𝘶𝘦 𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘯𝘰𝘶 𝘱𝘰́. 𝘓𝘶𝘻.
𝘈 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘩𝘢 𝘭𝘪́𝘯𝘨𝘶𝘢 𝘫𝘢́ 𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘰𝘶 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘢𝘥𝘢, 𝘪𝘮𝘢𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘰 𝘰 𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘢𝘭 𝘥𝘦 𝘏𝘪𝘣𝘢. 𝘜𝘮 𝘣𝘢𝘪𝘳𝘳𝘰 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘪𝘳𝘰 𝘦𝘹𝘪𝘭𝘰𝘶-𝘴𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘪𝘹𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘰 𝘢 𝘴𝘰𝘭𝘪𝘥𝘢̃𝘰 𝘯𝘶𝘮 𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘢𝘭 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘪́𝘯𝘲𝘶𝘰 𝘯𝘢 𝘫𝘢𝘯𝘦𝘭𝘢 𝘥𝘦 𝘶𝘮𝘢 𝘷𝘪𝘻𝘪𝘯𝘩𝘢. 𝘏𝘪𝘣𝘢 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘦, 𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘰 𝘵𝘰𝘢𝘭𝘩𝘢𝘴, 𝘲𝘶𝘦 𝘮𝘶𝘥𝘢 𝘥𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘳 𝘦 𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘪𝘤̧𝘢̃𝘰 𝘵𝘰𝘥𝘰𝘴 𝘰𝘴 𝘥𝘪𝘢𝘴. 𝘈 𝘮𝘶𝘭𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘢 𝘫𝘢𝘯𝘦𝘭𝘢 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦, 𝘧𝘢𝘻 𝘰 𝘮𝘦𝘴𝘮𝘰. 𝘜𝘮𝘢 𝘵𝘰𝘢𝘭𝘩𝘢, 𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘶 𝘷𝘪𝘷𝘢. 𝘖𝘶𝘵𝘳𝘢, 𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘦 𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘥𝘦. 𝘌𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘨𝘰. 𝘌𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘮𝘰𝘴 𝘫𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘴. 𝘙𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘳𝘮𝘰𝘴.
𝘗𝘳𝘰𝘴𝘢, 𝘰 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘤̧𝘢𝘴!
𝘚𝘪𝘮, 𝘦𝘶 𝘰𝘶𝘷𝘪 𝘣𝘦𝘮, 𝘦𝘭𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘦: “𝘗𝘰𝘳 𝘤𝘪𝘮𝘢 𝘥𝘰𝘴 𝘦𝘴𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘴 𝘥𝘢 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘩𝘢 𝘤𝘢𝘴𝘢, 𝘥𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘪. 𝘈𝘲𝘶𝘪 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘦𝘤𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘪”. 𝘔𝘢𝘴 𝘢𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘭𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘶 𝘱𝘰𝘷𝘰 𝘱𝘢𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘢𝘯𝘰 𝘯𝘢̃𝘰 𝘭𝘢𝘳𝘨𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘢 𝘢 𝘵𝘢𝘭 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘯𝘤̧𝘢 𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘢́𝘷𝘦𝘭 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘢 𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘤̧𝘢?
𝘖 𝘮𝘦𝘶 𝘵𝘦𝘹𝘵𝘰 𝘦́ 𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘢́𝘷𝘦𝘭.
𝘌𝘯𝘲𝘶𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘷𝘪𝘢𝘮 𝘳𝘰𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘵𝘴 𝘯𝘢 𝘤𝘢𝘣𝘦𝘤̧𝘢, 𝘌𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘥𝘪𝘻𝘪𝘢: “𝘳𝘦𝘻𝘰 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘢 𝘲𝘶𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘷𝘢 𝘫𝘢𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘮”.
𝘊𝘰𝘮 𝘦𝘭𝘢, 𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘪 𝘴𝘢𝘤𝘶𝘥𝘪𝘳 𝘰𝘴 𝘮𝘦𝘶𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘳𝘱𝘰𝘴 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘰𝘴, 𝘭𝘦𝘷𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘳 𝘢 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘩𝘢 𝘣𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘪𝘳𝘢 𝘦 𝘢 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘩𝘢 𝘥𝘢𝘯𝘤̧𝘢. 𝘜𝘮 𝘥𝘪𝘢 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘢́ 𝘤𝘩𝘶𝘷𝘢 𝘥𝘦 𝘫𝘢𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘮.
𝘖 𝘮𝘦𝘶 𝘵𝘦𝘹𝘵𝘰 𝘦́ 𝘤𝘩𝘶𝘷𝘢 𝘥𝘦 𝘫𝘢𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘮.
* Investigadora em Assuntos Palestinianos e Feministas
IN "gerador.eu" - 24/10/23
NR: Apenas queremos reiterar que consideramos 'benjamin netanyahu' tão assassino com os bandidos do 'hamas'! .
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Hυмσя є cσηнєcιмєηтσ єм ρσятυgυє̂ѕ (cσιѕα яαяα)
DAVID BOWIE
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