artikulation .fe5a

As London mourns some fifty dead,
Nobody thinks outside the west,
Why does the cost of those who died,
Exceed the cost of other lives?
For fifty dead's a daily count,
And really is no great amount,
For those who live on troubled shores,
Where digging graves is a daily chore.
And in those war-torn parts of earth,
It seems that life has little worth,
Where fifty children can meet their death,
Without a global pause for breath,
With no two-minute silences,
Or books of sweet condolences,
No prayers for those they left behind,
To them the western eye is blind.
Who calculates the mortal cost?
Why do the numbers not add up?
How can the value of one life,
Exceed ten fold another's price?