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.
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
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; well, 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
