𝑰𝒛 𝒋𝒆𝒅𝒏𝒆 𝒛𝒂𝒑𝒓𝒂𝒔̌𝒆𝒏𝒆 𝒌𝒏𝒋𝒊𝒈𝒆

𝐾𝑜 𝑠𝑛𝑎𝑧̌𝑛𝑜 𝑘𝑜𝑟𝑎𝑐̌𝑎 𝑛𝑎𝑝𝑟𝑖𝑗𝑒𝑑 𝑚𝑖𝑠𝑙𝑖 𝑖 𝑛𝑎 𝑧𝑎 𝑛𝑗𝑖𝑚 𝑧𝑎𝑜𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑙𝑒.

𝐴 𝑛𝑎𝑠̌ 𝑔𝑟𝑎𝑑 𝑗𝑒 𝑧𝑎𝑜𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑙𝑖 𝑝𝑢𝑡𝑛𝑖𝑘 𝑖𝑠𝑐𝑟𝑝𝑙𝑗𝑒𝑛 𝑖 𝑛𝑎 𝑟𝑢𝑏𝑢 𝑛𝑎𝑑𝑎𝑛𝑗𝑎 𝑠𝑣𝑜𝑗𝑖ℎ, 𝑖 𝑛𝑗𝑒𝑔𝑜𝑣𝑜 𝑢𝑧𝑑𝑎𝑛𝑗𝑒 𝑙𝑖𝑐̌𝑖 𝑏𝑒𝑠𝑘𝑟𝑎𝑗𝑛𝑜𝑚 𝑝𝑢𝑡𝑢 𝑠̌𝑡𝑜 𝑠𝑒 𝑔𝑢𝑏𝑖 𝑢 𝑠𝑣𝑗𝑒𝑡𝑜𝑣𝑖𝑚𝑎 𝑑𝑎𝑙𝑒𝑘𝑖𝑚. 𝐻𝑜𝑐́𝑒 𝑙𝑖 𝑚𝑢 𝑣𝑗𝑒𝑡𝑟𝑜𝑣𝑖 𝑑𝑜𝑛𝑖𝑗𝑒𝑡𝑖 𝑛𝑜𝑣𝑒 𝑔𝑙𝑎𝑠𝑜𝑣𝑒, 𝑖𝑙𝑖 𝑐́𝑒 𝑔𝑟𝑎đ𝑎𝑛𝑖 𝑠𝑎𝑚𝑖 𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑚𝑜𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑡𝑖 𝑘𝑟𝑎𝑗𝑒𝑣𝑒 𝑚𝑜𝑐̌𝑣𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑒? 𝐼𝑙𝑖 𝑔𝑎 𝑣𝑟𝑖𝑗𝑒𝑚𝑒 𝑖𝑧𝑏𝑎𝑐𝑖 𝑖𝑧 𝑘𝑜𝑣𝑖𝑡𝑙𝑎𝑐𝑎 𝑠𝑣𝑜𝑔, 𝑖𝑙𝑖 𝑚𝑢 𝑚𝑜𝑐́𝑛𝑖𝑐𝑖 𝑠𝑛𝑎𝑔𝑒 𝑠𝑝𝑢𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑠̌𝑒?

𝑂𝑛, 𝑔𝑟𝑎𝑑, 𝑧𝑎𝑚𝑢𝑘𝑛𝑢𝑜 𝑗𝑒 𝑘𝑎𝑜 𝑧𝑣𝑜𝑛𝑜 𝑢 𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑛𝑗𝑢 𝑧𝑎𝑝𝑢𝑠̌𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑜𝑚. 𝐽𝑒𝑟 𝑔𝑎 𝑝𝑎𝑢𝑐𝑖 𝑜𝑏𝑎𝑣𝑖𝑠̌𝑒 𝑚𝑟𝑒𝑧̌𝑎𝑚𝑎 𝑚𝑖𝑟𝑎 𝑢𝑐̌𝑚𝑎𝑙𝑜𝑔 𝑖 𝑛𝑖𝑘𝑜 𝑚𝑢 𝑛𝑒 𝑏𝑢𝑑𝑖 𝑡𝑖ℎ𝑎 𝑛𝑎𝑑𝑎𝑛𝑗𝑎, 𝑛𝑖𝑘𝑜 𝑚𝑢 𝑛𝑒 𝑢𝑏𝑙𝑎𝑧̌𝑎𝑣𝑎 𝑏𝑖𝑗𝑒𝑑𝑢 𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑔𝑜𝑙𝑒𝑚𝑢.

„𝑀𝑖 𝑠𝑎𝑔𝑟𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑠𝑚𝑜 𝑔𝑟𝑎𝑑 𝑖 𝑠𝑎𝑚𝑖 𝑠𝑒𝑏𝑒 𝑧𝑎𝑟𝑜𝑏𝑖𝑠𝑚𝑜“ – „𝐾𝑜 𝑛𝑎𝑚 𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑖 𝑣𝑖𝑑𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑢 𝑛𝑗𝑒𝑚𝑢 𝑖 𝑘𝑜 𝑛𝑎𝑠 𝑜𝑘𝑜𝑣𝑎 𝑢 𝑜𝑘𝑜𝑣𝑒 𝑛𝑒𝑣𝑖𝑑𝑙𝑗𝑖𝑣𝑒?“ – 𝑔𝑜𝑣𝑜𝑟𝑎ℎ𝑢.

𝐼 𝑘𝑎𝑑 𝑢𝑣𝑖𝑑𝑗𝑒𝑠̌𝑒 𝑠𝑣𝑜𝑗𝑒 𝑧𝑎𝑏𝑙𝑢𝑑𝑒 𝑙𝑖𝑗𝑒𝑐̌𝑖𝑡𝑖 𝑖ℎ 𝑛𝑒 𝑚𝑜𝑔𝑎ℎ𝑢. 𝐽𝑒𝑟 𝑚𝑖𝑠𝑙𝑖𝑙𝑎𝑐 𝑛𝑒𝑚𝑜𝑐́𝑎𝑛 𝑏𝑖𝑗𝑎𝑠̌𝑒 𝑠̌𝑡𝑜 𝑑𝑟𝑢𝑔𝑖𝑚𝑎 𝑛𝑒𝑑𝑜𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑗𝑎ℎ𝑢 𝑚𝑖𝑠𝑙𝑖, 𝑎 𝑜𝑛𝑖 𝑏𝑖𝑗𝑎ℎ𝑢 𝑛𝑒𝑚𝑜𝑐́𝑛𝑖𝑗𝑖 𝑗𝑒𝑟 𝑚𝑖𝑠𝑙𝑖𝑜𝑐𝑢 𝑛𝑒 𝑑𝑜𝑝𝑢𝑠̌𝑡𝑎ℎ𝑢 𝑑𝑎 𝑚𝑖𝑠𝑙𝑖.

𝐵𝑖𝑗𝑒𝑙𝑒 𝑠𝑒 𝑏𝑒𝑑𝑒𝑚𝑖 𝑔𝑟𝑎𝑑𝑠𝑘𝑖, 𝑎 𝑧𝑖𝑑𝑎𝑟𝑖 𝑡𝑢𝑔𝑢𝑗𝑢. 𝑧̌𝑎𝑛𝑗𝑒 𝑠𝑒, 𝑧̌𝑎𝑛𝑗𝑒, 𝑎 ℎ𝑎𝑚𝑏𝑎𝑟𝑖 𝑠𝑒 𝑛𝑒 𝑝𝑢𝑛𝑒. 𝑉𝑟𝑒𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑎 𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑙𝑎𝑧𝑒 𝑖 𝑐̌𝑢𝑣𝑎𝑟𝑖 𝑠𝑎 𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑛𝑗𝑎 𝑣𝑖𝑠𝑜𝑘𝑜𝑔 𝑔𝑙𝑒𝑑𝑎𝑗𝑢 𝑢 𝑑𝑎𝑙𝑗𝑖𝑛𝑒 𝑏𝑒𝑠𝑘𝑟𝑎𝑗𝑛𝑒.

𝐷𝑎 𝑙𝑖 𝑔𝑙𝑒𝑑𝑎𝑗𝑢 𝑧𝑎 𝑝𝑡𝑖𝑐𝑎 𝑗𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑎 𝑠̌𝑡𝑜 𝑖𝑑𝑢 𝑢 𝑘𝑟𝑎𝑗𝑒𝑣𝑒 𝑡𝑜𝑝𝑙𝑖𝑗𝑒, 𝑖𝑙𝑖 𝑢 𝑑𝑎𝑙𝑗𝑖𝑛𝑎𝑚𝑎 𝑝𝑜𝑠𝑚𝑎𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑗𝑢 𝑠𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑣𝑎𝑟𝑙𝑗𝑖𝑣𝑒?

𝑇𝑜 𝑠𝑎𝑚𝑜 𝑠𝑖𝑙𝑛𝑖𝑐𝑖 𝑧𝑛𝑎𝑗𝑢 𝑢 𝑘𝑜𝑛𝑎𝑐𝑖𝑚𝑎 𝑛𝑒𝑑𝑜𝑠𝑡𝑢𝑝𝑛𝑖𝑚.

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