The Poem of my Cid: The Champion

In the village of Burgos,
Rodrigo he was called,
Of the line of the Vivars,
He was born and without fanfare grew,
Drinking his wine and eating bread with oil and onions galore.

The youth to the field would run,
Where one day his heart he would leave,
Without fear of death,
Or a word that was said,
With face to the heavens where the Angels flew.

For the King of Castile,
Once a just prince he fought,
Champion of knights,
That feared life without glory,
More than death without God.

To Valencia his ambition took him,
To free the poet that remembered the saints,
And that the song of Zion through the streets sung,
The cross Rodrigo held high,
And the sword he brought down on the shield of the infidel soldier.

With both the Calif and the Slave of Alah he shared mirth in the tent before swords were crossed,
The Cid he was called and Valencia was a battleground for the Lord of hosts,
Armies moved East and fought all along,
Squires carried the arms and standards of knights on their horses,
  
And for warring without hate the name of the Cid is sung today to the Lord.