There are names that carry a gentle light,
Like a steady step upon a carpet of moss.
Françoise steps forward, her soul between sky and earth,
One hand for the world, the other for prayer.

She has the pure grace of balanced women,
Those who know how to love in order to feel freer.
In the quiet care of everyday life,
She patiently weaves the strongest of bonds.

They say a blond angel walked by her side,
To light her steps through the night, out of kindness.
She is the quiet strength, the healing smile,
The sovereign balm that soothes the spirit.

Tomorrow let us raise our glass to this precious name,
Which carries within it a little of heaven’s clarity.
For all the Françoises, guardians of the heart,
May the celebration be beautiful, filled with gentle warmth.

For true holiness is no empty mystery,
It is simply to love everything here on earth.

There are names that carry both velvet and iron,
A scent of fresh earth at the end of winter.
Colette moves forward, between shadow and vine,
Bearing within her a fruit that awakens in the sun.

She walks with the resolve of women of deep roots,
Those who read the wind and the blossom of wisteria.
Beneath the robe of burlap or the silk of her skin,
She hides a blaze, a breath, a rebirth.

Tomorrow, when dawn comes to bite the hillside,
We will search for her trace, both carnal and divine.
For all the Colettes, the free and the daring
May the celebration be long and the soul be dizzy with joy.

For beneath the name of a saint
Beats the heart of a pagan,
Who wants every moment, entirely, to belong to her.

There are some Johns who carry the fury of the stars,
Who walk barefoot upon the ground of disasters.
John of God stepped forward, his soul on the edge of vertigo,
Gathering from distress a celestial wonder.

He carried no baggage but his wide-open arms,
To cover the shivering of bodies turned upside down.
He is a lover of shadows, a thief of suffering,
Who slips beneath the skin a final hope.

His charity burns like a fever in November,
It enters without knocking, even into the room
Where the linen is crumpled, where the breath falls silent,
Where a hand searches for a body as one searches for a secret.

Tomorrow, let us raise our eyes to this madman of tenderness,
Who turned misery into a long caress.
For all the Johns of God, hearts of holy madness,
May the celebration blaze upon the threshold of the home.

For the most beautiful offering, at the end of the long road,
Is daring, wholly, to give oneself to humankind.

There are names that smell of salt and sun,
A scent of garrigue rising from sleep.
Olive moves forward, her skin the color of amber,
Carrying summer within her, even into her room.

She is the tree of life, gnarled yet so tender,
Beneath her silver leaves we love to rest.
Her fruit is a pearl, an oily promise,
That slips upon the lips, sensual and silky.

Tomorrow, when dawn comes to caress the hills,
We will taste her name, that delightful poison.
For all the Olives, women of light,
May the celebration be full, may it be like a prayer.

For beneath the rough bark beats a velvet heart,
That asks only to offer itself to the hands of love.

There are names that carry a promise,
A breath of spring, a gentle caress.
Félicité moves forward, her step light,
Like an April ray in the heart of the orchard.

She is not the happiness that passes and fades,
But the stubborn flame that defies every night.
It is the quiet strength, the faith that stands tall,
The smile that heals and transforms it all.

Tomorrow, when morning is tinted with sweetness,
Her name will be spoken as one gathers a flower.
For all the Félicités, sowers of life,
May the road be beautiful and the soul delighted.

For beyond the shadows and the restless wind,
It is the purest joy her name invites.

There is in this name an echo of the North,
A crystal breath that defies fate.
Casimir moved forward, a prince with a heart of light,
Preferring silence to the fury of war.

Beneath the purple and the ermine, he sought justice,
Making of his youth a humble sacrifice.
He did not love pride, nor the glitter of crowns,
But the outstretched hand and the soul that gives.

Tomorrow, when March awakens in a shiver of frost,
It is his gentle way of living he invites us to follow.
For all the Casimirs, the builders of bridges,
May the celebration echo across the horizons.

For true royalty is not found in conquests,
But in the peace of evening, far from the noise of storms.

At the edge of the world, where Armor is torn apart,
There is a name that sings and knows how to smile at us.
Guénolé steps forward on the wet sand,
His heart in armor, clothed in salt.

He built walls against the winds of the Atlantic,
Blending rough stone with a mystical dream.
Between land and river, in the hollow of the flowering Aulne,
He soothed souls and calmed the pain.

Tomorrow, March third, when the sea withdraws,
One hears in the waves a gentle sigh.
It is the saint of dawn, the watcher of the coast,
Who offers us a truce, a noble word.

For all the Guénolés, for hearts of granite,
May the celebration be beautiful and every shadow flee.