My legs resemble the legs of dwarves in their shape, except that their size is normal. These two legs have lived my story with me, just like my hands and nails. They have always been treacherous and trembling, but they haven't reached the point of rotting. I ask the Lord in anger why I constantly get sick and why I fell ill at a young age. Illness is painful, it makes my limbs inflamed and my liver easily deteriorated, that's how I felt.
Every time I opened my eyes again and saw my mother, my mother who raised me, I hated myself and my image. I thanked her for the plates of porridge every morning and the rice in the evening when I was three years old. I thanked the ancient dome that granted me the pleasure of running around and rolling on the hillsides. I thanked the shadows of the fig tree nearby and the grave covered with dry twigs. All these things would wake me up every time I fell asleep. I was given proper nourishment, which may have made my bones stronger, so I endured the pain, a lot of pain.