( Hammill )
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...
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.
