Through rain and snow, through sunlit days,
The postman’s steady stride finds countless ways.
From city streets to mountain steep,
Across the land, their promise they keep.
For centuries, in every clime,
They've woven bridges over space and time.
To bring each letter, card, and word,
Across the world, their tireless call is heard.
Anchalottakkaran, with purpose in his stride,
His leather satchel heavy, nowhere to hide.
Through winding lanes and fields so green, he roams,
Delivering tales from far and cherished homes.
In anchalpetti—the box of fate,
Our joys and sorrows patiently await.
The faint clink of locks, letters softly piled,
A nation’s beating pulse, reconciled.
And telegrams, with urgent, sharp demand,
Cutting through distance by an unseen hand.
In hurried code, each dot, each stark dash,
A life-altering message, in an instant's flash.
In paper folded, worlds of lives entwined—
A mother’s comforting note, a lover’s tender line.
The news of hope, the tales of silent fears,
Whispered and carried through countless years.
For love and longing, dreams confessed,
In ink and seal, our souls expressed.
Through every hand and each addressed name,
Their trusted mission stays the same.
With hands so humble, hearts so bold,
They bring our stories, new and old.
A steadfast, quiet, and enduring friend,
On whom the waiting masses still depend.
To all the silent miles they've crossed,
To journeys made, no matter what the cost,
We lift our thanks, our voices gently raise,
In gratitude, in well-deserved praise.
For every town, for each address,
The postal service—tireless and true, boundless.
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