He was sucked into the dark whirlpool, with a shaved head and chained, he also turned his back on his tough guy past, deep in the East, without the right to write, while the only book he was allowed to read - and only a few moments a day he managed to read - was the Gospel. He was a loner, even though he couldn't isolate himself from his surroundings; he was, because he had an infinite soul, a soul that contained everything. It is difficult for anyone to understand why, only he, who has the power to live the suffering of all those who are tormented around him, is at the same time the loneliest of all! And yet, that's how it was. Who could feel the suffering of a man who is at the center of all sufferings? That man, who seeing the white-haired, the same pitiful old soldier relentlessly beating his condemned brother with the whip, felt his own flesh being torn and burned? No one else knows now, as he does, that deep down in every unfortunate person, a spark of hope secretly burns, giving him the strength to lift his head above his own misery and gaze into the infinity of hope as it stretches far into the horizon.