He was alone in his workshop.
All alone.
Alone with the entire.
He took a look at his colours and saw the sanctuary.
They had asked the unthinkable from him.
He had to write.
For the Sacred.
For a Church without icons.
Barbarism had stolen all of them.
And it blinded all the Saints
before removing them from the walls.
For centuries on, nobody saw
all that was missing from the Church.
Only mathematics and geometry
withstood the siege and the looting.
And the architecture was furtheron empty.
Without content.
The oblivion had turned the Church
into a building which everyone called a museum.
But that was dead and had to be enlivened.
The Resurrection was necessary.
For this reason they asked the Big Icon of him.
For none other.