Blandine carries the pride of sap filled with light,
Her gaze sharpened by the winds of reality.
She has walked upright upon the workers’ soil,
Never trading her soul for a false heaven.

She knows the mornings when the rhythm grinds,
The weight of fatigue and the dreams left unspoken.
Beneath the cold logic where the system washes all away,
She keeps a flame that nothing could extinguish.

She rejects pretence and glass masks,
The showcase speeches where everything rings hollow.
She offers her modesty, her whole truth,
And the pride of a path that remains courageous.

She is a living wound through which poetry flows,
A refuge of flesh against a world of lead.
Blandine does not bend - she takes her place,
Blending tenderness with the refusal of disgrace.

Justin bears the name of the righteous without fanfare,
His gaze sharpened by the shadows of the night.
He leaves to silver-tongued speakers the noise of the storm,
To anchor his pride in the need to truly see.

He has known hard work, metal and ashes,
Those concrete mornings where the machine devours.
But he never let the system claim him,
Keeping deep within his eyes the sap of his own choices.

He rejects disguise and polished speech,
Showcase success and false appearances.
He offers without shame his naked wound,
Preferring his scars to the lies below.

He is a pillar in the shadows, a quiet strength,
Who translates emotion without ever begging for it.
Justin walks straight through the hell of the city,
Blending free words with unwavering courage.

There are quiet hands that mend our days,
Eyes that understand the silence of our love.
A mother is that beacon amid the storms,
That unseen strength when our souls grow weary.

She carries within her heart the wounds of others,
Transforming pain into a shelter for those she loves.
She knows the weight of endless nights,
Yet still reaches out when the path begins to tremble.
In the shadow of everyday life, without noise or crown,
She gives to those she loves what she herself sets aside.

Today, let us raise our eyes to these women of light,
Those who have sown love into the dust of our lives.
May this day return to them a little of the tenderness
They quietly placed deep within every heart.

💖 Happy Mother’s Day to all mothers, here, elsewhere… and in memory.

Ferdinand walks with the stride of men of structure,
Those who know how to build when all collapses around them.
He bears upon his brow a noble fracture,
The defiant mark of time and labor.

He has known discipline, the factory, and relentless rhythm,
The inhuman calculation that seeks to tame the blood.
Yet, at the heart of his defenses, he preserved
The wild spark and the cry of the living.

He despises false appearances and cold display,
Manufactured smiles and cardboard words.
Ferdinand offers the world his own fracture,
Never apologizing for loving the vast horizon.

He is a bearer of truth, a poet with rugged bark,
Who refuses to bend beneath the yoke of nothingness.
Blending tenderness with raw resilience,
He remains a free man, immense and demanding.

Aymar bears the gaze of those who stand watch at the edge,
And the measured step of those who have struggled.
He leaves to false devotees the traps of theorem,
To anchor his destiny in reality.

He has known the cold, the factory, and the scrap metal,
Those faceless worlds where breath is broken.
He carries within his heart the taste of battle,
And refuses to see his honor divided.

He despises pretense and grand artificial speeches,
The masks of virtue that the age buys for itself.
He prefers his ruins to the game of injustices,
And walks beneath the storm with his head held high.

He is a cry of revolt mingled with living sap,
A translator of pride along the margins of paper.
Aymar walks straight upon barren roads,
Blending raw words with the strength of craftsmanship.

Germain bears the mark and burden of harsh winters,
The patience of trees that withstand the storm.
He does not wait for others to dictate his rights,
And walks through the ages with his head held high.

He is a man of grounding, a quiet rebel,
Who has worn out his hands against the steel of factories.
He knows what the world demands in regrets,
And how light grows again upon the ruins.

He refuses disguise, false appearances, and the crowd,
Ordinary contempt and cold reason.
Leaving courtiers their salons and their space,
He prefers exile and the vast horizon.

There is in his gesture a noble integrity,
The ink of memory and the fire of craftsmanship.
Germain remains standing, despite the wound,
True to the root, whole among the whole.

Augustin carries within him the memory of stones,
The scent of old lead and chilly mornings.
He has known exile, the winds of the border,
And beneath the bark, he keeps a proud gaze.

His hands bear the color of earth and iron,
He does not burden himself with futile grand speeches.
Each of his silences is a fragment of flesh,
A solid anchor in the wastelands of the city.

He has seen machines and dreams fade away,
Bodies worn to the bone, crushed by the system.
Yet he never knew how to bow down or complain,
Finding in his reserve a fierce law.

He is the quiet guardian of forgotten pages,
A poet of shadows with sovereign words.
Upon his wooden table, engraved truths
Speak of the man who stands tall and carves his path.