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.
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……..
