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.

There are hearts of oak, firmly rooted in the real,
That seek no gold descending from a false and distant sky.
Vincent steps forth proudly on the twenty-seventh day,
His worn cloak dark with shadows, his hands filled with love’s light.

He has crossed through mud and courtyards stripped of grace,
Lifting up the outcast, broken by life’s cruel embrace.
He is the apostle of the chains, the watcher of the galleys,
Who rejects all splendour and fights against poverty.
Yet beneath the coarse wool and the burden of his toil,
Burns an ember-spirit, a sun that will not recoil.

For Vincent is the foundation where pride is born anew,
The honest organisation of brotherhood tried and true.
He is earth made flesh, with a will both stern and strong,
A free man’s rampart for those whom fate has cast along.

Tomorrow, let us raise our cups to this name of valour,
To the strength to act, to constancy and honour.
For every Vincent, steadfast, loving, and true,
May the celebration be beautiful, shaped by skies and seas anew.

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.