He never wore a uniform,
but his pockets were always full.
Whispers folded into paper.
Promises sealed with the hush of dawn.
Every letter found its way,
even if the sender never did.
Listen
Lyrics
He walks a route that isn’t mapped
in boots that change their size
Delivers mail to doorways
that exist in other skies
The letters have no postage
no date, no name, no ink
Some are folded shadows
Some just shimmer when you blink
He carries bags of whispers
bound in string and threadbare vows
Once delivered a sigh to a meadow
and it bloomed behind the plow
A widow got a postcard
that smelled like someone’s skin
It said, “I meant to stay,”
then dissolved back into wind
A child got a package
wrapped in paper made of rain
Inside: a button, a wish,
and something close to pain
He’s knocked on every threshold
from the living to the lost
Left letters at the mouths of caves
and rivers that forgot
The postman never opens them
though one did hum his song
He simply smiled and walked away—
says answers don’t belong
They say he once received one too
addressed to “When You’re Done”
He keeps it in a pocket
that’s never seen the sun
And if he passes near your town
with parchment in his hand
Don’t ask what he is bringing—
just open when you can
About this song
Fragile acoustic layers and ghostly ambiance carry the words that never reach their home.
Return to: The Almanac of Impossible Folk