At the foot of the hill I stood.
I wanted to go up,
but I couldn't.
I was afraid of some-thing.
It seemed doubt about my ability or unea-se of the future.
Fails which I have p-iled are staring at me from my back at any momment.
I dread that I would be killed by it's f-ang.
Sunlight is pouring into all around,cherry blossoms being at their best,little birs singing merrily.
But they only make me gloomy．
They make me feel th-at only am I left behind,everything ex-cept me going far a-way．
I am left behind at the foot of the hill,without tearing,but vacantly,because I know that even if I weep no one confort me,because I know that my tear never means anything witho-ut anyone.
I looks like a bug which was picked his wing,and struggling awkwardly,vainly,an-d alone.
He seems going to rot away while no one knows.
But I think,or belie-ve that even if I am to be so in the end,however small my existence is,doing my best will let me feel that my life is worth living．
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