engleză
I write these letters to my Son.
Son,
I leave you this book because the hours the court granted us are too short for a father to teach his son how to breathe. I have architected these words as a mental bridge between us.
This book was not planned; it was born in the eye of a cyclone. My heart exploded, and my friends, my horsemen family, tended to my wounds until a therapist directed my bleeding ink toward a single purpose: You. I write in English to control the depth, for in Arabic, my pen has already tasted too much blood.
I do not leave you gold or silver, for I have seen how they cloud a man's judgment. Instead, I leave you the true wealth:
A Fast Mind: Do not fear it; utilize it to see three steps ahead.
A Clean Heart: Keep it free of envy and hate, for hate is a black hole that consumes the rhythm of life.
A Legacy of Names: You carry fifteen names, each an idea and a history of scholars and fighters.
The world is a jungle of spiders casting silken webs of lies. To survive, you must:
Observe: Read the intent in a man's eyes before he speaks.
Be Honest: Admitting your wrongs is what separates a leader from a shadow.
Maintain Discipline: We study while others sleep; we prepare while they are unaware.
When I ride, my horse and I become a Centaur, one in mind and motion. I am a dead rider galloping, for I have lost the fear of falling. I want you to fly, too, even if your wing is broken, for the Great Nothing of space holds no gravity for those who dare to dream.
The Final InstructionRead these letters to feel me, to know me, and to be better than me. Do not compete with my pain, but if you compete with me in love, you will surely win.
I have prepared the code; you must build the body.
