There are names that stand tall, knowing nothing of pretense,
And flames of justice that no one can extinguish.
Frédéric steps forward beneath the July sky,
His gaze fearless, his heart never silent.

He refused the shadows and the bargains of the powerful,
Choosing instead to walk in daylight, free beneath the storm.
He is the guardian of order, the watcher of light,
Who opposes false treaties with the strength of his word.
Yet beneath the gentleness of a blameless shepherd,
One feels the heartbeat of a spirit as firm as rock.

For Frédéric is the man who never bows his head,
Choosing great sacrifice rather than dishonor.
He is flesh of bronze in the heart of summer,
A beacon of faith and unwavering dignity.

Tomorrow, let us raise our cups to this name of integrity,
To the living sap of the brave that heals every wound.
To all the Frédérics, the steadfast, the lovers,
May the celebration be bold, guided by the elements.

The calendar stood still on that November day,
When the mist stole your final breath away.
That cold twentieth of autumn, within the quiet room,
Time came to a halt, surrendering to winter's gloom.

You let go of my hand to journey far above,
To join your mason in their sacred home.
Leaving your children, your son, beneath the weight of words,
Counting every moment and every tear that falls.

Since that gray day, emptiness has become an abyss,
A wound too raw, flowing deep within my blood.
The poet stands wounded, searching for a rhyme
To cry out the pain of such heartbreaking grief.

I still see your gentle hands, your laughter echoing,
Your quiet strength whenever life grew hard.
You carried this world as though it were a crown,
Never complaining of your own wounds.

Yet beneath the folds of night where my soul is breaking,
I keep your light and your noble pride.
That working soul, that living sap death could never erase,
Still beats within my heart for all eternity.

Your name remains engraved upon every page.
Every word I write still carries your breath.
You are the golden thread woven into my very being;
The silence after you can never be silenced.

Maria Fernanda, Mother
Today should have been your day,
But you are no longer here.

There are names so steadfast they defy their executioners,
Leaving behind a brighter trail in the depths of darkness.
Charlotte steps forward amid the turmoil,
Her face serene beneath the weight of every insult.

She did not yield before iron or fear;
She kept her song alive to the very edge of horror.
She is the hidden strength, the silent rebel,
Who answers blind violence with grace.
Yet beneath the softness of her humble robe,
One senses warm blood and a spirit of remarkable purity.

For Charlotte is the force that cannot be broken,
The refusal of prisons and of words disguised as truth.
She is flesh of marble with a sunlit gaze,
An anthem of pride that heralds awakening.

Tomorrow, let us raise our cups to this noble name,
To the sacred freedom that never bows.
To all the Charlottes, the proud, the lovers,
May the celebration be beautiful and the night alive with wonder.

There stands a mountain rising before the sea,
A rocky refuge in the heart of the desert.
The Lady steps forward beneath the July sun,
Offering her cool shade to the weary traveler.

She does not come to adorn the mighty with their splendor;
She brings a cloak to bind and heal their wounds.
She is the mantle of the earth, the fabric of hidden mysteries,
Laid upon the breast and upon hearts grown too burdened.
Beneath the simplicity of this humble garment,
One senses the strength of a pure commitment.
Yet beneath its promise and the calm of evening,
Beats a great flame that can never be extinguished.

For Carmel is the anchor amid the storm,
The highest dignity that endures through the ages.
It is living sap beneath a sunlit sky,
A shelter of silence that heralds awakening.

Tomorrow, let us raise our cups to this name of light,
To the strength of our bonds, to the whole earth.
To all the faithful, the passionate, the lovers,
May the celebration be rich, guided by the elements.

There are names built to reign over the plains,
Yet they prefer the silence of the ancient oaks.
Donald steps forward beneath the July sky,
Master of his own domain, keeper of quiet mysteries.

He turned away from rumors and the glitter of crowns,
To listen to the wind and to what the earth provides.
He is the father of the moorlands, the guardian of the valley,
Leaving his finest lessons written in the soil.
Yet beneath his steadfast bearing and apparent calm,
One feels the heartbeat of a demanding spirit.

For Donald is the bark that nothing can bend,
Choosing rugged honesty over the comfort of deception.
He is flesh of bronze with a sunlit gaze,
A steadfast landmark that heralds awakening.

Tomorrow, let us raise our cups to this name of pride,
To the sap of summer, to true dignity.
To all the Donalds, the steadfast, the lovers,
May the celebration be bold, guided by the elements.

There is a day of fire in the history of humankind,
When the people's cry awakens and shatters what once confined us.
The people step forward, their chests held high,
To sweep away the shadows and the contempt of the mighty.

Tonight, we care nothing for drawing rooms or chains;
It is pure freedom that pulses through our veins.
It is the celebration of public squares and forgotten accordions,
Where truth dances upon the cobblestones.
Eyes meet with honesty, smiles bear no disguise,
And joy is shared amid the unexpected.
Yet beneath the fireworks and the festive songs,
One feels that ancient courage lifting every head.

For the Fourteenth is the spirit of an unyielding land,
One that would rather embrace its ruins than accept hollow promises.
It is flesh of bronze with a trembling refrain,
A blaze of memory that endures through time.

Tomorrow, let us raise our cups to the light of day,
To the honor of standing tall, to the strength of love.
To all the free spirits, the proud, the lovers,
May the night be boundless, guided by the elements.

There are twin names upon the calendar of the brave,
Two forces of the earth that refuse to live as slaves.
Henri steps forward as a master, built like a mighty oak,
Placing his steadfast hands upon the land he tends.
And Joël stands beside him, his voice strong and serene,
Ready to proclaim the truth that burns within his veins.

One embodies structure, the pillar, the home,
The gift of holding the course in the midst of fear.
The other is the cry of the heart, the watcher from the heights,
Rejecting masks and the lukewarm preachers of easy lessons.
Yet beneath their bearing and the weight of the passing seasons,
The same blazing fire beats within their shared home.

For Henri is the rock that shelters the earth,
And Joël is the fire that sweeps away the dust.
Together they walk beneath the July sky,
Leaving their sun-weathered skin beneath the light of hidden truths.

Tomorrow, let us raise our cups to these men of the land,
To the summer sap that lights their path.
To all the Henris, the Joëls, the passionate, the lovers,
May the celebration be bold, guided by the elements.