We wend our way across the land
Through rain and snow and sleet.
We cannot stop to view the scene
We've a schedule we must meet.

You see us briefly, now and then
As we pause to deliver your mail.
We carry words, we carry gifts
Through wind and driving hail.

We find you wheresoe'r you are
There is no hiding place.
On swiftest wings we fly to you,
Across the mountains, race.

We ask no thanks, we ask no pay
Our needs are easily filled.
Some food, a place to rest ourselves,
Until our hearts are stilled.

Until that day, we'll serve you,
Although 100 gold seems steep,
We hardly see but one of that,
Our lives are short and cheap.

So, when you seem to lack the words
For a suitable dinner toast,
Please raise your glasses and salute
The intrepid Doves of the Post.

Penned by my hand on the 24th of Mayan, in the year 385 AF.