Thou art not the one I want to write about;
but it appears that I have no brighter choice.
The only one that seems to bear no fault;
and lives a life full of merriment and bliss.

And thy, thy name! So delicate as a summer laughter
With hands so imbued with clarity and brave power.
I believe thou art such an ingenious lover;
but frail as thou hath always been; weak and fragile
under thy harmonious cover.

And shall I be treading these paths, tomorrow noon;
whenst I'll come across a dainty flower by the lagoon.
Amongst those ripe cherries-there is one too like thee,
so mysterious and sometimes gazes awkwardly at me.

Thy young bud is that of rose and berry,
a symbol of thy soul so embraced by words and poetry.
Ah! And so deserving it is of graceful flattery;
as thou move along these paths, thy young heart shines
and gleams afar-just like the dribbling snow,
how childish, yet altogether refined and free.

Thy stare-o, thy stare, querida, is deep and anxiously unbending;
like those gracious arts and their prudential stone carving
or pools with swarms of red starfish so enchanting
as my little boat swims along feverishly, unnoticing.

And ah! Unaging as thou always art,
growth is but futile to thy slippery soul
With this world thou shalt never part,
and foreverness becomes thy frost-like hall.

Youthness of thine that shall never fade,
and handsome face that shall never wane.
O, how thy delicacy is to me like that cruel fate-
o my dearest, humble immortal man!

Timelessness shall then become our lasting key;
to a love sweeter and even more precious than destiny.
And live, live in utter happiness shall forever we,
as long as these muscles can breath, and as far as
these eyes can see.