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, 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... |