The killer lives inside me: 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.



The killer lives.



The 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,



For 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 onto 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.....I hope that I'm not damned.

I'm just a man, and killers, angels, all are these:

Dictators, saviours, refugees

in war and peace

as long as Man lives....



I'm just a man, and killers, angels, all are these:

Dictators, saviours, refugees........

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