I was recently hearing to many languages, and, based on the sound alone, I made a list of my favorites:

look out boys, we got the new proust right here!!!

Spain

I hate spanish from spain, it sounds like a motorcycle.

Is not that I am that good; the fact is that you are the one who is bad. But if you want to compete, we can go. Post something that I post something too, we see who is best.

I hate to act with arrogance (so much that to even type this proposal makes me sick), but will not let anyone humiliate my homeland based on nothing. I can show right now that I am more capable than you.

>implying i'm a writer
where did you get that from? stay mad, negro.

fucking kek
10/10
pls duel for us

I like Italian and Dutch.

>stay mad, negro.

a negro that is smarter than you

;)

If he is a coward I shot first. A translated poem of mine.

Snow

When the heavens are sick with the flu and cold fever
And the veins of the clouds vitrify;
When the spongy blood-cells of the mist crystallize in pearls
And the sick sun wraps himself in blankets of fog to fall sleep,
Then it is the time when the atmosphere dissolves itself into diamonds
And the sky is fragmented in flour of frost.
It is then that the trembling sowing of the winter skies start,
Covering the whole world with its nebulous feathers,
As if the angels, in the changes, peeled their wings.
The fields of wheat, the vales of rye are all covered;
Covered are the vineyards where the bunches of grapes
(Nurseries of ruby and spherical tadpoles and tinct embryos)
Become fat with sugar and tanned with tannin.
The forests of maples and oaks too,
The pine trees that transpire sap with breath of mint, the sweat of winter,
The mossy emperor’s with armies of foliage,
They are all dressed in spider-webs knitted with crystals.
Heavenly deposits of silver drizzle countless evanescent flowers
Over the dark sea that sparkle and hisses with salt
And belch foam in the eternal heartburn of the waves.
Frost rides smoothly, with thousands of small cotton fairies,
The backs of cattle, which are grouped together to share heat,
And in pinching sweaters of ice involve the bulls and calves.
Covered are the wooden huts of the shepherds,
The sheds and corrals that smell of iron and coal,
And further along, towards the own synthetic heart of civilization,
The concrete skeletons of the cities are also coated,
And the asphalt, the black arteries that feed the urban world,
Where the blood of mankind never ceases to flow
And the tingle of the cars never stops.
Covered are the homes of brick and the buildings of steel;
And the cars, streetlights, parks, churches;
Covered are the cemeteries where bones and memory sleep.
So begins the silent sprinkling of the winter skies,
The spectral rain of whiteness that drowns the entire surface of the universe
(The epidermis of the world, that looks to the heavens in vain questioning and confused admiration)
With the ghosts that the infinite horizons bleeds as blankets,
The glacial shroud that entombs life in an odorless desert of sugar.
And then, for a single grain of time in the flow of existence, being and nothingness embrace:
For this polar ceremony unites, for a brief moment, the living and the dead:
Living and dead share this albino sleep and ivory silence,
This reflex of nothingness and twin brother of emptiness,
This imitation of the complete absence of existence
That the immaculate shroud and winter mourning consecrated upon Earth.

No mention of Arabic.

And just to remember: I am not saying I am a good writer. I am just saying that a guy comes here and calls me and my family and friends monkeys although he cannot write better works than even me (me, who am a nobody and not a famous example of talent and success).

I don't want to be a pain in the ass, but according to your other top choices I doubt that you mean classical latin, you probably meant late latin. Classical latin sounds like a weird mixture of Dutch and Italian.