Il est des cœurs de roche à l'abri des rumeurs,
Qui mesurent l'abîme et l'exacte hauteur.
Bruno s’avance droit au sixième jour d’octobre,
Le front ceint de clarté sous un manteau si sobre.

Il a fui les palais, les charges et les brigues,
Pour bâtir sur le roc sans compter les fatigues.
C’est le veilleur des cimes, l'homme de la Chartreuse,
Qui trouve dans l'exil une force orgueilleuse.
Pourtant, sous l'âpre bure et le givre des nuits,
Vibre une immense ardeur qu'aucun néant ne fuit.

Car Bruno est le phare au creux des solitudes,
Le refus du vacarme et des vaines servitudes.
C'est une chair de chêne face aux vents déchaînés,
Un esprit souverain sur les monts enchaînés.

Demain, levons la coupe à ce nom de rigueur,
À la force d'attente, à l'auguste grandeur.
Pour tous les Bruno, les solides, les amants,
Que la fête soit franche, au gré des éléments.

Il est des fleurs sauvages au creux des pierres nues,
Qui bravent la froidure et veillent l'inconnu.
Fleur s’avance fière au cinquième jour d’octobre,
Le port altier et doux sous son habit si sobre.

Elle a fendu la boue et les cours de misère,
Offrant son humble éclat comme une vive ornière.
C’est l'hospitalière d'aube, le baume des blessés,
Qui refuse le fard des palais désossés.
Pourtant, sous la corolle et le geste apaisant,
Vibre une sève chaude au milieu des tourments.

Car Fleur est le printemps arraché à l'orage,
L'éveil d'une noblesse enracinée d'usage.
C'est une chair d'aurore au milieu du déclin,
Un souffle de clarté par-dessus le destin.

Demain, levons la coupe à ce nom d'espérance,
À la grâce tenace, à la noble constance.
Pour toutes les Fleur, les vivaces, les amantes,
Que la fête soit belle et l'âme frémissante.

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.