Street Octopus Babies Poem by Ayatullah Nurjati

Drain the heart to scavenge a sadness
Babies make a fortune
Their mothers—their fathers let them go because they were bound by a substance of life
Those who can only crawl play the strings of beauty for a moment

They have to stretch something for a can of milk, or a baggy school shirt
Where are their fathers and mothers, are they both busy chatting in an elegant rented house by putting aside the ego stuck to their foreheads?
Or are they really orphans who don't know the love of their parents, and are forced to become a disease on the streets

In the light of day surrounded by puffs of smoke of scorching sorrow, they tried to overcome the arrogance of the drivers and conductors.
Babies teach grandparents how to be human
A street baby with a hoarse voice who seems to be looking for a mouthful of chicken porridge by traveling the world to a donated country

The nurse is dressed as a dwarf with a clutch and buckle who carries a prison, a prison of insanity and gives a frantic diaper
The nicks of sweat, the trail ran aground, the busty skin became an impression on the baby octopus, its many legs can hit buses and public transportation.
Small coins to scavenge their survival
Road markings can only be witnesses to the baby's life.