The killer lives inside me: yes, I can feel him move.

Sometimes he's lightly sleeping

in the quiet of his room,

but then his eyes will rise and stare through mine;

he'll speak my words and slice my mind inside.

Yes the killer lives.

Angels live inside me: I can feel them smile...

Their presence strokes

and soothes the tempest in my mind

and their love can heal the wounds

that I have wrought.

They watch me as I go to fall

- well, I know I shall be caught,

while the angels live.



How can I be free?

How can I get help?

Am I really me?

Am I someone else?



But stalking in my cloisters hang the acolytes

of gloom

and Death's Head throws his cloak into

the corner of my room

and I am doomed...

But laughing in my courtyard play the pranksters

of my youth

and solemn, waiting Old Man

in the gables of the roof:

he tells me truth...



And I too, live inside me and very often

don't know who I am:

I know I'm not a hero, but

I hope that I'll not die.

I'm just a man, and killers, angels,

are all me:

Dictator, saviour, refugee in war and peace

as long as Man lives...



I'm just a man, and killers, angels,

are all me:

Dictator, saviour, refugee