The Ascetic with a Postal Bag

I met our postman on the road. He was still delivering letters at 6 in the evening. I greeted him and he greeted me back most respectfully, holding my hand and lifting it to his forehead. He always walks on foot as he goes about delivering letters. It is a familiar sight to see him trudging on the streets even after working hours. Sometimes I wonder why doesn't he use a bicycle.

Like the hands of an old-fashioned clock

Not on any bicycle,

not on any motorcycle,
neither on the wheels of any kind;
he comes, he comes trudging on his feet.
In the afternoon he begins his itinerary,
the lean walking figure without fail the evening will find.

Often I see him in the post office,
never does he give his job a miss.
Devotedly sorting letters and parcels, he is seen
collecting them in his bag
for the area allotted to him
and then he steps out in weather, kind or mean.

He is too courteous not to wait at the gates,
though he is late
as he visits homes, letters and parcels to deliver.
Sometimes only to find that the address is wrongly written
or the addressee no more lives there.
He stands outside when inside cold winds give us shiver.

Hits and blows from all around
that fall on him and pound
on his aging body and bone,
he bears them up like the Stoics of old
silently, patiently, confidently.
He is an ascetic in penance on mountains alone.


Our postman, sure like the morning light
will pass this street true and right.
Like the hands of the old fashioned clock of charm
Points to a number without fail.
God of mercy, bless our postman.
Strengthen and protect him from all harm.

by Xavier Bage

6th Sept, 2014