There are wanderers with clay beneath their feet,
Who flee false reflections and promises too weak.
Bertrand steps forward on the sixth day of autumn,
His staff gripped in a mighty fist, bowing to no crown.

He has crossed the dust and the stony paths,
Holding his word high before the eyes of the poor.
He is the instinctive walker, the raven of light,
Who refuses every mask and the vanity of courts.
Yet beneath the sternness of a weathered face,
Burns a warm lifeblood, an untamed heart.

For Bertrand is the rock of a word without detours,
An iron grip that defies the false light of day.
He is bronze in flesh, weathered beneath the sun,
A call for honesty that sounds the awakening.

Tomorrow, let us raise our glasses to this name of worth,
To strength of spirit, to noble greatness.
For all the Bertrands, the upright, the loving,
May the celebration be sincere, beneath the will of the elements.

Between her fingers, earth and living sap,
She listens to the secret song of every flower,
Carole knows the word that troubles every stem,
The silence of a petal, and its truest colour.

The stems bow gently, the foliage comes alive,
For the one who creates according to the heart,
Far from rigid speeches and gestures without soul,
She offers beauty in the rhythm of a simple beat.

Today, the season pauses in her steps,
Time lays down a sincere bouquet, without disguise,
To honour the heart, the spirit that never lies,
And the grace of a day that life has made her own.

Happy Birthday, Carole.

There are hearts of iron beside the rivers of the East,
That refuse to flee and keep their eyes ahead.
Raïssa steps forward on the fifth day of autumn,
With a proud and fearless stride, owing nothing to any man.

She has seen the heavy chains and the accursed ship,
Yet climbed aboard the little boat without a single cry.
She is the rebel of dawn, the companion of chains,
Who shares the storm and walks straight through hell.
Yet beneath the strength of a gesture with no return,
Burns a pure lifeblood, an indomitable love.

For Raïssa is lightning in the heart of silence,
A flame of spirit and proud courage.
She is bronze in flesh, with the gaze of a rebel,
A breath of light that no tyrant can ever break.

Tomorrow, let us raise our glasses to this name of integrity,
To the strength to act without fear of wounds.
For all the Raïssas, the free, the loving,
May the celebration be beautiful and the night tremble with life.

There are flowers born of lava and sovereign wind,
That flee the gilded courts to challenge fate.
Rosalie steps forward on the fourth day of autumn,
The sun upon her brow, never bowing to crowns.

She has climbed the ridge and the rock of exile,
Preferring silence to lies shaped from clay.
She is the rose of the abyss, the hermit of the sea,
Who masters death and drives the winter away.
Yet beneath the harshness and the bed of stones,
Burns a living flame, a heart both fierce and tender.

For Rosalie is dawn upon the hilltops,
A steadfast strength scented with hawthorn.
She is a body of flame with an Italian gaze,
A fragrance of pride that time can never fade.

Tomorrow, let us raise our glasses to this rebel name,
To the strength to love, to vows that keep the fire alive.
For all the Rosalies, the proud, the loving,
May the celebration be beautiful and the night tremble with life.

There are eyes that stay awake while the world is sleeping,
Holding the city against the footsteps of fate.
Gregory steps forward on the third day of autumn,
A sentinel’s gaze standing at the threshold of crowns.

He has tended the wounds of an empire on its knees,
Offering the bread of truth amid the turmoil.
He is the builder of order, the master of clarity,
Who refuses escape and empty vanity.
Yet beneath the sternness of an iron-handed minister,
Vibrates a noble sap, a song of soul and sea.

For Gregory is the guard in the heart of night,
The steadfast beacon where terror disappears.
He is bronze in flesh, forged by duty,
A sovereign watchman who drives back the darkness.

Tomorrow, let us raise our glasses to this name of integrity,
To the strength to act, to a soul without a crack.
For all the Gregorys, the honourable, the loving,
May the celebration be true, beneath the will of the elements.

There are daughters of the North with a boreal gaze,
Who carve their own path without fearing steel.
Ingrid steps forward proudly on the second day of autumn,
Her brow free and serene, bowing to no crown.

She has walked the earth and the stony paths,
Leaving the gold of palaces for a greater purpose.
She is the walker of dawn, the lady of winters,
Who crosses the night and defies every setback.
Yet beneath the whiteness of a face of frost,
Burns a sovereign fire that teaches the heart to live again.

For Ingrid is the flame within the Northern winds,
A steadfast strength more powerful than gold.
She is a queen’s flesh with courage forged in bronze,
A noble spirit rising above destiny.

Tomorrow, let us raise our glasses to this name of elegance,
To the strength to love, to proud and fearless courage.
For all the Ingrids, the free, the loving,
May the celebration be beautiful and the night tremble with life.

There are solitary souls with hearts both vast and deep,
Who find beneath the woods the shelter others flee.
Gilles steps forward, free, on the first day of autumn,
His gaze resting upon the silence of the oaks.

He reached out his hand to spare the frightened doe,
Braving the strike of steel without a tremor or a cry.
He is the watcher of the thickets, guardian of the wild,
Who rejects the strength and pride of needless slaughter.
Yet beneath the great calm and his measured stride,
Beats a titan’s heart, an untamed spirit.

For Gilles is the shield amidst the turmoil,
A grip of rock that no wind can ever shake.
He is bronze in flesh, weathered by the undergrowth,
A rampart of tenderness beside the golden meadows.

Tomorrow, let us raise our glasses to this name of kindness,
To the strength to act, to true dignity.
For all the Gilles, the steadfast, the loving,
May the celebration be sincere, beneath the will of the elements.