Dreams of Wayfarers

The sleeping leaves on trees,
stir by the bustling wind,
turn one way then another,
blink their opening eyes
at the exhausted streetlamp.

Oh, why won't the wind see
that when the leaves wake,
dreams of those wayfarers
slip into cries of sorrow deep.

Oh, why won't the wind rest
a little, if only to see
the gaiety of the leaves
kissing the morning breeze.

P.S.: I read somewhere that when one first starts writing poetry, most of his works will be imitations of poems he has read somewhere in the past. This one most definitely comes from my youth.