Imprisoned for the sin of being himself was a long, drawn out, death sentence. What good is living when you are abandoned and alone, when you have no home, no country, when even your name is an anathema, and the talent you possess, your only means to earn a living, has lost all of its joy?
We can only be who we are; we cannot change who we love anymore than we can change the color of our skin. I cannot imagine the fathomless heartbreak of knowing that even if you had a way of turning back time, the end would be the same simply because you are you.
If he could see the mark his Wildeness left on the world and how things have changed, would it comfort him? In all earnestness, I doubt it.