There are princes’ sons with pockets torn and bare,
Who cast their treasures down upon the dusty road with care.
Francis steps forth barefoot on October’s fourth day,
With honest laughter on his lips beneath his humble array.

He gave away the silk, the helmet and the finery,
To embrace the earth and heal the wounds of misery.
He is the fool of the clearings, the brother of the birds,
Who speaks without fear to the wolf among the hills.
Yet beneath the rags and ashes of the wounds he bears,
Burns a sovereign fire that no winter ever scares.

For Francis is the song amid the clamour and the noise,
The triumph of the poor, set free through tears and choice.
He is ember made flesh beneath the leper’s kiss,
A sun of the unbowed, with a generous gaze of bliss.

Tomorrow, let us raise our cups to this name of hope,
To boundless kindness, to courage free and full of scope.
For every Francis, ardent, loving, and true,
May the celebration be sincere, shaped by skies and seas anew.

There are hearts that stand on guard, with swords laid down,
Who raise again the walls of cities fallen down.
Gerard steps forth proudly on October’s third day,
His stride heavy with strength beneath his humble array.

He has cleaved through night and every cowardly snare,
Restoring discipline within the vast desert air.
He is the maker of rules, the master of stone,
Who rejects all splendour and restores what time has overthrown.
Yet beneath the roughness and the duty deeply carved,
Burns a sovereign fire, a spirit fierce and unstarved.

For Gerard is the lance placed in service of the just,
The strength to command with a hand worthy of trust.
He is oak made flesh through nights of steadfast care,
A loyal man’s rampart for souls raised from despair.

Tomorrow, let us raise our cups to this name of rigour,
To the strength to act, to noble greatness and vigour.
For every Gerard, steadfast, loving, and true,
May the celebration be sincere, shaped by skies and seas anew.

There are hearts that stand guard amid the fiercest blows,
Offering themselves as shields to save the flock they chose.
Léger steps forth proudly on October’s second day,
His head held high before the steel, in steadfast, sober array.

He defied hatred and princes steeped in blood,
Holding the lance in hand for the cries of the common good.
He is the man of justice, the bishop of the glades,
Who rejects the pact and every coward’s masquerade.
Yet beneath the torments and the gaze worn down by pain,
Resounds a voice of bronze that no blow could ever bend.

For Léger is the foundation in the heart of autumn’s gloom,
The shepherd’s courage when terror echoes through the room.
He is martyr made flesh, with courage standing tall,
A spark of noble greatness torn from the face of gall.

Tomorrow, let us raise our cups to this name of truth,
To the strength of a leader who withstands every wound.
For every Léger, faithful, loving, and true,
May the celebration be sincere, shaped by skies and seas anew.

There are strong souls in the hollow of the deepest silence,
Who turn their weakness into courage of sublime brilliance.
Therese steps forth proudly on the first day of October,
With a light and honest step beneath her humble cover.

She broke the yoke of empty and fleeting glory,
To lead through darkness toward the highest victory.
She is the warrior of shadows, the flame of those withdrawn,
Who scatters her petals where even the wind has gone.
Yet beneath a childlike face and innocent smile,
Burns a heart of titanium that withstands every trial.

For Therese is the rock standing firm within the night,
The harvest of courage where infinite faith shines bright.
She is a rose made flesh, with thorns both sharp and fine,
A fire of pure devotion that no abyss can undermine.

Tomorrow, let us raise our cups to this name of hope,
To the strength of giving, to endurance without end or scope.
For every Therese, proud, loving, and true,
May the celebration burn bright, and the soul tremble anew.

There are storm-hearted souls beside the parchment seated,
Who carve into the truth, by no venom ever defeated.
Jerome steps forth proudly on autumn’s thirtieth day,
With piercing eyes where truth resounds and will not sway.

He tamed the beast and crossed the burning sand,
Translating word for word the breath of humankind.
He is the watcher of stone, the scribe who speaks no lies,
Who rejects all painted glamour and the glitter of the courts.
Yet beneath the sting and the sharpness of his steel-bound word,
Burns a pure living sap, a pioneer’s heart stirred.

For Jerome is the anchor where spoken truth takes form,
The refusal of deceit amid the desert’s storm.
He is a manly strength through stubborn nights awake,
A beacon of living ink upon each page he makes.

Tomorrow, let us raise our cups to this name of high demand,
To the strength of words, to constancy that firmly stands.
For every Jerome, sharp-minded, loving, and true,
May the celebration be sincere, shaped by skies and seas anew.

There are arms of bronze that make the abyss retreat,
That cleave the darkness and make doubt accept defeat.
Michael steps forth proudly on autumn’s twenty-ninth day,
His sword held high in the wind, with no retreat in his way.

He has struck down the shadow and the crawling beast,
Refusing vertigo and blood-bound pacts at least.
He is the archangel at the prow, watcher of the tides,
Guarding the rampart where the wounded earth abides.
Yet beneath the armour white and the iron gaze,
Burns a pure flame above the fires of hell’s blaze.

For Michael is the cry that shatters pride apart,
The guardian of those who stand when cliffs tear the world’s heart.
He is lightning made flesh upon the mountain’s crest,
A breath of victory where none can force surrender’s rest.

Tomorrow, let us raise our cups to this name of power,
To the rejection of chaos, to courage in its hour.
For every Michael, steadfast, loving, and true,
May the celebration be sincere, shaped by skies and seas anew.

There are iron dukes beneath a cloak without conceit,
Who cross the night to stand beside the grieving and the meek.
Wenceslas steps forth on autumn’s twenty-eighth day,
With justice in his gaze, where love has found its way.

He braved the frost and all the fury of the courts,
Carrying wood and fire to those abandoned at their doors.
He is the prince of the poor, the sovereign loyal and true,
Who despises murder and the brutal deeds men do.
Yet beneath the gentleness of a king without pride,
Burns an untamed fire where justice stands as guide.

For Wenceslas is gold refined through forgiveness given,
The greatness of refusal when cowardly plots are driven.
He is bronze made flesh, weathered by duty’s stern demand,
A sun of justice rising over a darkened land.

Tomorrow, let us raise our cups to this name of valour,
To loyalty steadfast, to constancy and honour.
For every Wenceslas, just, loving, and true,
May the celebration be sincere, shaped by skies and seas anew.