| 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 fallwell, 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… |