The Tale of Abu Mansur

When I reached out to begin this book, there was a noble man, proud and lofty. He was young, of a warrior's blood, wise, alert, and clear of spirit. A master of good judgment and of modesty, fine in speech and gentle of voice. He said to me: what is it you need from me, while your soul is drawn toward the making of words? Whatever lies within my reach, I will work so you never have to ask another. He kept me safe like a fresh apple, so that no storm-wind could ever frighten me. From the mournful dust I rose to the height of Saturn, thanks to that kind-hearted, honored, celebrated man. In his eyes gold and silver were the same as plain dirt; generosity had given him all his grace and glory. The whole world was worthless before him; he was a true, noble man, and he was loyal. That famous man vanished from our circle like a tall cypress gone from the garden lawn. I find no sign of him, alive or dead; he fell into the jaws of man-killing monsters. Alas for that girded waist, that noble bearing; alas for that kingly height and majesty. My heart, held captive, has lost all hope, trembling and shaking weakly like a willow. Let me recall one piece of advice from that lord, and turn my soul from crookedness toward justice. He told me: this book of kings, when you have finished it, dedicate it to kings. So I set my hand to this book in the name of the proud king of kings.