From above, concrete and glass grids can be seen, people moving inside the margins, passing through this precise, outlined space, constituting the city whose name is Europe. The human text presents itself as a disproportionate poem, spreading in an inconstant rhythm, a rhythm sought by the observer, who wants to call it European. We face the challenge of reading through the city and its dwellers; these form the dense fabric of the crowd and establish as the smaller unit of Europe itself. When descending to the ground level, the identity of the superior observation is revealed as illusory, and the inhabitant of this European space, having been wrongly judged as being specific, transforms places with actions. We compare walking to a language: the steps of the passers-by are the speech and writing units, and rhymes hide amid the dense paragraphs we carefully go through. The European rhythm is strange to its own dweller. From the drift, a collection of heterogeneous memories prevails, disperse elements that are unconsciously united by the poetry of the red colour — symbols of wounds and blood, of pain and passion, of fraternity and war.