There are hearts of bronze whose hands bring healing grace,
That challenge suffering and restore the human race.
Cosmas and Damian advance on the twenty-sixth day,
Two brothers walking proudly, with love that will not stray.

They braved the blade, the fever, and the poison’s sting,
Offering their art freely, without gold or bargaining.
They are the healers without wealth, masters of the cure,
Who rise throughout the night so suffering may endure no more.
Yet beneath the gentleness of hands that soothe and heal,
Burns an untamed fire no darkness can conceal.

For they are the rampart where death is forced to yield,
An honour-bound alliance that makes the weak strong in the field.
They are flame made flesh beside the suffering bed,
A voice of justice where the mighty bow their head.

Tomorrow, let us raise our cups to this name of right,
To brotherhood that tends the wounds and restores the light.
For Cosmas and Damian, faithful, loving, and true,
May the celebration be sincere, shaped by skies and seas anew.

There are broken bodies that defy the weight of earth,
Carrying the spirit’s gold beyond the bounds of birth.
Hermann steps forth proudly in the heart of autumn’s grace,
His gaze turned toward the heavens, where the great song finds its place.

Pinned upon his sickbed, his eyes fixed on the blue,
He measured stars and ages, while silence carried through.
He is the giant of the mind, the watcher of the skies,
Who rises beyond hardship and the burdens life supplies.
Yet beneath the anguish of a face worn down by pain,
Resounds an immense voice no iron could constrain.

For Hermann is strength amid the ruins left behind,
The blazing triumph of the flame, the cry of humankind.
He is a titan’s heart beneath a weary outer shell,
A sovereign spirit no frailty can dispel.

Tomorrow, let us raise our cups to this name of valour,
To courage forged in iron, to steadfastness and honour.
For every Hermann, steadfast, loving, and true,
May the celebration be sincere, shaped by skies and seas anew.

There are free-born women whose sovereign voices rise,
Breaking every shackle to shape their own destinies.
Thecla steps forth proudly beneath autumn’s first breeze,
With fearless eyes where the sound of rebellion breathes.

She fled the palaces, the weddings, and the chains,
To walk the open roads, unafraid of loss or pain.
She is the dawn-bound traveller, the tamer of the flame,
Who bends the fires to her will and drives away hatred’s name.
Yet beneath the hardship and the bed of stones,
Burns a living sap, a heart both fierce and tender-toned.

For Thecla is courage standing in the heart of fright,
A rebel’s voice refusing crowns and kings their right.
She is ember made flesh, with a gaze that will not stray,
A living example of bravery that will not yield or sway.

Tomorrow, let us raise our cups to this name of pride,
To the naked word, to freedom’s radiant light.
For every Thecla, strong, loving, and true,
May the celebration be beautiful, and life tremble anew.

There is a season when the earth grows pure and bare,
When trees reveal their strength beneath the open air.
Autumn advances through the great mirror of the days,
With ember in its gaze and love that will not fade.

It has cast aside the gold and painted masks of summer,
Keeping only truth, its one and faithful banner.
It is master of the woods, the harvester of sap,
Turning every fall into the strength that rises back.
Yet beneath the mists and leaves that fade away,
A sovereign ground of warmth still pulses through the grey.

For Autumn is the bedrock where courageous hearts are forged,
The refusal of decline, the root that stands restored.
It is earth made flesh, in copper, bronze, and flame,
A noble breath rising beyond the reach of fate.

Tomorrow, let us raise our cups to this turning tide of fire,
To generous furrows and red splendour climbing higher.
For every season in which humankind remains grand,
May the celebration be sincere, shaped by sky and land.

There are officers whose brows are crowned with pride,
Who refuse both crime and obedience hollow-eyed.
Maurice steps forth firmly as the equinox draws near,
With a granite gaze that makes injustice disappear.

He held the mountain pass and the giants’ lofty gate,
Without ever drawing steel against the innocent’s fate.
He is the leader of proud men, the soldier of conscience,
Who chooses honest steel over cowardly alliance.
Yet beneath the cuirass and the armour’s cold array,
Burns a brother’s heart stronger than kings could ever sway.

For Maurice is the rock within the narrow pass,
The living proof of an oath that no storm can surpass.
He is bronze made flesh, forged for duty and command,
A sun of the unyielding rising over a darkened land.

Tomorrow, let us raise our cups to this name of worth,
To the strength of honour, to noble greatness on earth.
For every Maurice, courageous, steadfast, and true,
May the celebration be sincere, shaped by skies and seas anew.

There are proud men seated beside the tavern bar,
Who know how to abandon all when evening shadows are.
Matthew steps forth boldly at the edge of the season,
His gaze set free from calculations without reason.

He cast away the coins and gold of hollow tribute,
To walk toward the open sea and meaning absolute.
He is the man of rupture, the scribe of clarity,
Who sweeps aside the past for the sake of truth alone.
Yet beneath the discipline of an account now closed,
Burns a sovereign fire, a spirit fierce and composed.

For Matthew is the gift torn free from years of wear,
The courage to be reborn beyond the wounds we bear.
He is bronze made flesh, weathered beneath the blazing sun,
A covenant of nobility, of strength, and love as one.

Tomorrow, let us raise our cups to this name of truth,
To daring courage, to a soul untouched by false adornment.
For every Matthew, steadfast, loving, and true,
May the celebration be sincere, shaped by skies and seas anew.

There are hearts forged beneath the breath of ocean spray,
That keep their given word, whatever others say.
Davy steps forth proudly on autumn’s twentieth day,
His gaze upon the open sea, where restless waves hold sway.

He has held his course without bending to the wind,
Choosing the sting of truth to silence left behind.
He is the watcher of the shores, the rock of solitude,
Who rejects the empty lure and false certainties pursued.
Yet beneath the armour and the salt of every fight,
A living warmth still pulses, strengthening his stride.

For Davy is the blade torn from the heart of pain,
An anchor of devotion that defies the storm and rain.
He is bronze made flesh, weathered by the turning tides,
A noble breath that journeys where the golden horizon lies.

Tomorrow, let us raise our cups to this name of might,
To the strength to love, to grandeur proud and bright.
For every Davy, steadfast, loving, and true,
May the celebration be sincere, shaped by skies and seas anew.