El Cid - photo of Little Cid on Flickr. Public domain.
Song of Mio Cid
Those of us who study what was called pure letters know what it was like to decipher some fragments of XNUMXth-century Castilian Spanish when we read the Song of Mio Cid. Masterpiece of medieval epic literature In these parts, it is the epic poem senior that is conserved complete.
Count the feats from the noble Castilian Rodrigo Díaz de Vivar, who lived in the second half of the eleventh century. Fought against the Moors to get their honor restored after being wrongly accused of stealing money from the king.
Its authorship and date in which it was written remain reason for debate by the most studious. They do seem to agree that it is based on a oral version series that must have circulated since little after the death of the Cid.
I have chosen the famous passage from the Jura of Santa Gadea to remember. And I add the verses that he dedicated to him Manuel Machado in the poem of Castilla.
Jura of Santa Gadea
do the sons of god swear,
they take the oath to Alfonso
for the death of his brother.
The good Cid took it,
that good Castilian Cid,
on an iron bolt
and a wooden crossbow
and with some gospels
and a crucifix in hand
The words are so strong
that frighten the good king:
- Villains kill you, king,
villains who are not noblemen,
from the Asturias of Oviedo,
that are not Castilian;
kill yourself with goads,
not with spears or darts;
with horned knives,
you encompass roads,
not shoes with a bow;
with bast nightgowns,
not from holland or carved;
mounted, come on donkeys,
not on mules or horses;
bring the rope reins,
no of blanched leathers;
kill yourself for the plows,
that not in villages or towns,
and take out your heart
by the sinister side
if you don't tell the truth
of what you are asked:
if you went or consented
in the death of your brother.
The swears were so strong
that the king has not granted them.
Manuel Machado
Castilla
on the hard edges of arms,
light sore breastplates and backs
and flames at the tips of spears.
The blind sun, thirst and fatigue
Through the terrible Castilian steppe,
into exile, with twelve of his own
-dust, sweat and iron- the Cid rides.
The inn is closed to stone and mud. No one responds ... To the pommel of the sword
and to the tale of spades the shutter
it's going to give way. The sun burns, the air is scorching!
To the terrible blows
of hoarse echo, a pure voice, of silver
and made of glass, answer ... There is a girl
very weak and very white
on the threshold. Is all
blue eyes, and in the eyes. tears.
Pale gold nimba
his curious and scared little face. Good Cid, come in. The king will put us to death,
will ruin the house
and sow the poor field with salt
that my father works ...
Gone. Heaven fill you with good fortune ...
In our evil, oh Cid, you gain nothing! The girl is silent and cries without moaning ...
A childish sob crosses the squad
of fierce warriors,
and an uncompromising voice yells: Let's go!
The blind sun, thirst and fatigue ...
Through the terrible Castilian steppe,
into exile, with twelve of his own
-dust, sweat and iron- the Cid rides.