O pintor
𝑂 𝑝𝘪𝑛𝘵𝑜𝘳, 𝑎̀𝘴 𝘷𝑒𝘻𝑒𝘴, 𝑒́ 𝑢𝘮 𝘱𝑜𝘦𝑡𝘢,
𝑃𝘰𝑟 𝑣𝘦𝑧𝘦𝑠, 𝘶𝑚 𝑡𝘳𝑖𝘴𝑡𝘦 𝘮𝑒𝘯𝑒𝘴𝑡𝘳𝑒𝘭
𝘋𝑒𝘳𝑟𝘢𝑚𝘢𝑛𝘥𝑜 𝑙𝘢́𝑔𝘳𝑖𝘮𝑎𝘴 𝘥𝑒 𝑝𝘰𝑒𝘴𝑖𝘢
𝑃𝘦𝑙𝘰𝑠 𝑜𝘭ℎ𝘰𝑠 𝑡𝘳𝑖𝘴𝑡𝘰𝑛𝘩𝑜𝘴 𝘥𝑜 𝑝𝘪𝑛𝘤𝑒𝘭.
𝘈̀𝑠 𝑣𝘦𝑧𝘦𝑠, 𝘵𝑎̃𝘰 𝘴𝑜𝘮𝑒𝘯𝑡𝘦 𝘶𝑚 𝑐𝘢𝑛𝘵𝑜𝘳
𝑄𝘶𝑒 𝑝𝘦𝑙𝘢𝑠 𝑠𝘶𝑎𝘴 𝘮𝑎̃𝘰𝑠 𝑒𝘯𝑡𝘰𝑎 𝑐𝘢𝑛𝘤̧𝑎̃𝘰
𝘋𝑒 𝑠𝘦 𝘰𝑢𝘷𝑖𝘳 𝘱𝑒𝘭𝑜𝘴 𝘰𝑙𝘩𝑜𝘴 𝘤𝑎𝘵𝑖𝘷𝑜𝘴
𝑁𝘢 𝘷𝑜𝘻 𝘥𝑜𝘤𝑒 𝑑𝘢 𝘪𝑚𝘢𝑔𝘪𝑛𝘢𝑐̧𝘢̃𝑜.
𝐴̀𝘴 𝘷𝑒𝘻𝑒𝘴, 𝑢𝘮 𝘣𝑜𝘦̂𝑚𝘪𝑜 𝑡𝘳𝑜𝘷𝑎𝘥𝑜𝘳
𝘘𝑢𝘦, 𝑛𝘰𝑠 𝑙𝘦𝑣𝘦𝑠 𝑡𝘳𝑎𝘤̧𝑜𝘴 𝘥𝑒 𝑠𝘶𝑎𝘴 𝘵𝑖𝘯𝑡𝘢𝑠,
𝘊𝑜𝘮𝑝𝘰̃𝑒 𝑜𝘴 𝘢𝑐𝘰𝑟𝘥𝑒𝘴 𝘱𝑒𝘳𝑓𝘦𝑖𝘵𝑜𝘴
𝐷𝘢 𝘣𝑒𝘭𝑒𝘻𝑎 𝑑𝘢𝑠 𝑜𝘣𝑟𝘢𝑠 𝑞𝘶𝑒 𝑝𝘪𝑛𝘵𝑎.
𝑀𝘢𝑠, 𝘱𝑜𝘳 𝘲𝑢𝘢𝑙𝘲𝑢𝘦𝑟 𝑑𝘢𝑠 𝑣𝘦𝑟𝘴𝑜̃𝘦𝑠
𝐷𝘰 𝘢𝑡𝘰𝑟 𝑞𝘶𝑒 𝑑𝘦𝑙𝘦 𝘴𝑒 𝑑𝘦𝑠𝘥𝑜𝘣𝑟𝘢,
𝑂 𝑝𝘳𝑜𝘱𝑜𝘴𝑖𝘵𝑜 𝑒́ 𝑠𝘦𝑚𝘱𝑟𝘦 𝘰 𝘮𝑒𝘴𝑚𝘰:
𝐸𝘯𝑐𝘢𝑛𝘵𝑎𝘳 𝘱𝑒𝘭𝑜 𝑒𝘯𝑐𝘢𝑛𝘵𝑜 𝑑𝘢 𝘰𝑏𝘳𝑎.
𝐸𝘯𝑡𝘢̃𝑜, 𝘴𝑒 𝑡𝘶𝑑𝘰 𝘯𝑒𝘴𝑡𝘦 𝘮𝑢𝘯𝑑𝘰
𝘌́ 𝘵𝑎̃𝘰 𝘣𝑜𝘯𝑖𝘵𝑜 𝑒 𝑡𝘢̃𝑜 𝑐𝘰𝑙𝘰𝑟𝘪𝑑𝘰
𝘌́ 𝘱𝑜𝘳𝑞𝘶𝑒 𝑜 𝑝𝘪𝑛𝘵𝑜𝘳 𝘫𝑎́ 𝑒𝘹𝑖𝘴𝑡𝘪𝑎
𝐴𝘯𝑡𝘦𝑠 𝑑𝘦 𝘰 𝘮𝑢𝘯𝑑𝘰 𝘵𝑒𝘳 𝘦𝑥𝘪𝑠𝘵𝑖𝘥𝑜
𝘖𝑢, 𝘱𝑜𝘳 𝘦𝑠𝘴𝑎 𝑣𝘦𝑟𝘴𝑎𝘵𝑖𝘭𝑖𝘥𝑎𝘥𝑒
𝐷𝘦 𝘴𝑒 𝑑𝘦𝑠𝘥𝑜𝘣𝑟𝘢𝑟 𝑒𝘮 𝘵𝑎𝘯𝑡𝘰𝑠 𝐸𝘶𝑠,
𝘗𝑜𝘥𝑒 𝑠𝘦𝑟 𝑞𝘶𝑒 𝑜 𝑝𝘳𝑜́𝘱𝑟𝘪𝑜 𝑝𝘪𝑛𝘵𝑜𝘳
𝘚𝑒𝘫𝑎 𝑎 𝑜𝘣𝑟𝘢 𝘱𝑖𝘯𝑡𝘢𝑑𝘢 𝘱𝑜𝘳 𝘋𝑒𝘶𝑠.