| 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, savior, refugee in war and peace
|
| As long as Man lives
|
| I’m just a man, and killers, angels
|
| Are all me:
|
| Dictator, savior, refugee |