Certainly not after World War II. Not in the cabinets of ministers and prime ministers. A thing born at the table has no future. It should have been learned, at least. If ever there was Europe, it was born on the farms of the time that made the barbarians kneel more than the blunt weapons of an empire in dissolution. On the road, at which thousands began to follow it to desired destinations. On construction sites, where something unthinkable and never seen before was built. And in the courts, where anonymous poets told stories that had never been heard before.
Imagine that you are a warrior, a husband and a father. A good warrior and a good husband and a good father. To unleash the envy of your lord, who throws you into infamy and forces you to leave everything and go far. Far from home, far from the woman you love and far from your daughters. What would you say moving away from your land, from your home?
“With tearful eyes he turned to gaze upon the wreck behind : His rifled coffers, bursten gates, all open to the wind : Nor mantle left, nor robe of fur ; stript bare his castle hall : Nor hawk nor falcon in the mew, the perches empty all. Then forth in sorrow went my Cid, and a deep sigh sighed he ; Yet with a measured voice, and calm, my Cid spake loftily — ‘ I thank thee God our Father, thou that dwellest upon high, I suffer cruel wrong to-day, but of mine enemy.’ As they came riding from Bivar ‘ the crow was on the right. By Burgos gate, upon the left, the crow was there in sight.^ My Cid he shrugged his shoulders and he lifted up his”
Thus begins The poem of the Cid and his wandering.