Before I begin, I must tell you in my native tongue that I love you. I adore you with every fiber of my being. I am not telling you this out of promise for future romance; nor out of unyielding compulsion. None of these. No. I can only express these verbal incantations of affection to you due to one sole reason, and this purpose alone. You cannot understand a single word pouring from my silent lips. I watched you from atop of my Spanish villa as you bathed in the rays of Apollo. I tried, oh how desperate were my attempts not to look. Not to bask in the warmth of your beauty for all of eternity, as I wish I could. Doubtful are my beliefs that you will ever know my name. Never will you notice my admiration of you amidst this crowd. I love you only in the privacy of my own heart, although I wish I knew you. Not the 'you' everyone knows through casual conversations and late-night soirees. No. I wish to know the real you. The you of presence. The 'you' you keep concealed in the walls of your sandy skin; shielded by a broken heart no one bothered repairing. I would have reconstructed these shards then, as I would now. You need only ask. Only glance this way.
So, my dear, sweet, whomever, if this sonnet, dedicated to your evanescent frame, were to ever become published, only to be translated into different languages and dispersed among the continents, like so many in the past have; I pray this poem, singing praises to your illustriousness, and yours, alone, finds its way into the palm of your hand. Only then will you know, without knowing, what I have known since that day. You are forever immortal. Forever young.