There are names draped in the whiteness of day,
Hiding beneath their cloth an indomitable love.
Alban steps forward, free and serene in spirit,
Ready to bind his name to the noblest of destinies.

He opened his door to the hunted man,
And beneath the borrowed cloak, his fate was sealed.
He is the fierce witness, the companion of the night,
Who trades his tunic for a great black inkwell.
Yet beneath the white fabric and the calm of his brow,
Beats a rebel's blood that defies all outrage.

For Alban is the one who does not know how to betray,
Preferring the storm to the comfort of a lie.
He is flesh of marble where the sap still pulses,
A wild strength that no fear can restrain.

Tomorrow, let us raise a cup to this name of clarity,
To the man who stands firm in his pure truth.
For all the Albans, the bold, the lovers,
May the celebration be sincere, carried by the elements.

There are tomorrows when the earth is fulfilled,
When the longest day drives away shadow and night.
The Solstice steps forward, clothed in light,
And comes to strike at the heart of the lineage of fathers.

It is the celebration of the man with hands of granite,
The pillar of the home, the one who builds.
A father is the bark, the timber of the framework,
A steady shoulder when the road climbs steeply.
He does not speak the words; he proves them through labor,
Hiding his scars beneath a veil of modesty.

And summer then unfolds like a burning chest,
Releasing its warmth and triumphant lifeblood.
It is the season of sap and completed harvests,
When a father's strength unfolds within his son.
Beneath the blazing sun, the skin has weathered,
Proud to have held its course through the year.

Today, let us raise a cup to the men who pass things on,
To those who walk upright, without pretense or compromise.
For all fathers by blood, by heart, or by calling,
May the celebration be grand and the wine shared among all!

There are names that carry the freshness of the undergrowth,
The secret of great trees and the shade of ancient roofs.
Silvere steps forward, with a heavy and quiet stride,
Like a man walking deep within his own forest.

He has known courts, traps, and crowns,
Before the ocean became his throne.
He is the exile of the islands, the righteous man laid bare,
Who keeps his dignity before the gnarled tree.
Yet beneath abandonment and the winds of the sea,
One feels a warm blood beating, a will of iron.

For Silvere is the one who never bows his head,
Preferring silence when the hour of insult comes.
He is the raw sap hidden beneath the bark,
A pillar of pride that defies every wound.

Tomorrow, let us raise a cup to this name of horizons,
To the wild strength that knows no prison.
For all the Silveres, the free spirits, the lovers,
May the celebration be profound, carried by the elements.

There are names forged in the gold of great palaces,
That choose exile and the shadow of the forests.
Romuald steps forward, stripped of his rank,
Leaving behind the turmoil of the mighty.

He has closed his eyes to the feasts of the world,
To listen instead to the earth and its deep-flowing sap.
He is the prince of the woods, the seeker of the absolute,
Who finds his greatness in humble secrecy.
Yet beneath the white robe and the calm of a hermit,
Beats a blood of passion that no law can restrain.

For Romuald is the man who confronts his own night,
To turn it into a blazing fire where truth shines.
He is the ancient rock in the heart of the valley,
A quiet strength that teaches by its very presence.

Tomorrow, let us raise a cup to this name of integrity,
To the solitary soul that defies all wear and decay.
For all the Romualds, the wise, the lovers,
May the celebration be sincere, carried by the elements.

There are names that carry a muffled roar,
The pride of the desert at the break of day.
Leonce steps forward, with a sunlit gaze,
Like a lion standing tall to herald the awakening.

He has the raw strength and the skin of warriors,
Yet his soul knows the humblest of paths.
He is a man of iron with words of crystal,
Who rejects pretense and theatrical games.
Beneath Roman armor or the softest linen,
One senses a warm blood that no law can restrain.

For Leonce is the one who stands before the wind,
Keeping his heart intact, untamed, alive.
He is the ancient rock that the arena has challenged,
The witness of a strength that nothing could bend.

Tomorrow, let us raise a cup to this name of courage,
To the royal sap that flows through the ages.
For all the Leonces, the wild hearts, the lovers,
May the celebration be sincere, carried by the elements.

There are names that walk within the night of sight,
Yet carry within them all the blue of heaven’s light.
Hervé steps forward, guided by a child’s hand,
And by the tamed wolf that follows him in silence.

He does not see the earth, but feels its vibrations,
The shiver of the moorlands and the cry of the seasons.
He is the sacred bard, the poet of the stones,
Who knows that wounds themselves hold lessons to be known.
Yet beneath his simple robe, beneath his hermit's calm,
Beats a blood of passion that no shadow can disarm.

For Hervé is the one who sings of beauty,
Restoring to wounded hearts their rightful dignity.
He needs no ink to carve the path he takes,
His voice is a blazing fire that warms his fellow souls.

Tomorrow, let us raise a cup to this legendary name,
To the strength of the spoken word, to the soul that grows aflame.
For all the Hervés, the visionaries, the lovers,
May the celebration be profound, vibrant with life's fervor.

There are names forged for walking and the wind,
An echo of mountains beneath a demanding sky.
Jean-François steps forward, staff in hand,
Carving through the storm a courageous path.

He does not love the calm of velvet palaces,
He prefers the cold, where he can sow love.
He is the apostle of the summits, the guide of hamlets,
Who heals misery and breaks the chains.
Yet beneath the black robe and the hunter’s stride,
One can feel a blazing fire, an immense warmth.

For Régis is the man who never retreats,
Even when frost bites and wearies his steps.
He is the living flame that runs across the highlands,
Giving voice once more to the humblest of words.

Tomorrow, let us raise a cup to this name of altitude,
To the man of the field, far from certainty.
For all the Régis, the passionate, the lovers,
May the celebration be sincere, carried by the elements.