Hercules is racing for the border
A blur of camouflage upon the trees
The midwife of the stillborn new-world-order
Bound for sanctuary 'neath the Fleur de Lis
As the balefires of Kigali fade behind her
Her thoughts have turned to Paris in the spring
But she leaves behind a legacy of slaughter
A gift to honor Leopold the King

The first rains of the season are descending
Roadblocks have completely shut the streets
Corpses stacked in windrows never-ending
The air is thick with the stench of rotting meat

Although the best laid plans are often shattered
Madame Agathe has not abandoned hope
She bows her head and prays on things that matter
Thanking God - and Mitterand - and the Pope

At the airport she accepts a sheaf of flowers
A limousine and forty thousand Francs
A gesture from the ones who sit in power
Pockets bulging with the cash from Rwanda's banks

When the people we abandoned call for justice
Will we find our cowardice too much to bear
Can we be surprised that they no longer trust us
When Agathe still walks the streets - and no one cares