He had only to love you.

At the bottom of wood, in the half-light of the day, you drown. The light of the life do not arrive any more to you. The white skin of your fished designates you. All, even with me. I knew you, humble, fragile. So far where you plunged in tormented water of the Nile. You wanted to know the world. To exceed the borders, hold them, to lose themselves, waltz in the glaucous swirls of your insanity. You found them in Egypt. That could have been in China or elsewhere. In your head, in your body, there was neither reference mark no more, nor hour. You wanted to allure, conquer, flee. You wanted nothing to hear which can retain you. To run beyond your limits. To blow, push the heart until aggravation. Not to breathe more so that the last page of the partition is turned. You arrived there, absorbed in this water extinguishing the fire of your passion. You could not forget. It was your solution. In remembering, he cried. It was too late, the evil was done. It built you this statue, to glorify you, honour you. He thought of running away himself. He was consumed there. Including, well too late, that it would have had only to love you.