I can translate it word for word for you. You will see.
Note: Benedict: (a church in Italy, I don't know the details)
Translation:
Benedict is a day, a month, a year.
Spring is Benedict's extraordinary moment.
Lovely scene, spot. The prisoner's two bright eyes saw my silence to oppression.
Du is the first Peng, which is the most precious to me. When love becomes a guest, it stimulates my hearing.
Benedict is a bow, an arrow shaft that penetrates my chest.
Even if the wound, even if my heart is tight.
Benedict is also a plant, talking to Grove through a grader.
Let the echo of her name fill this woodland.
Sighs, tears, suffering, love
Benedict's sonnets originated from my fame and fortune.
Benedict's idea, oh, will never be eliminated.
What leads her to loneliness is her upcoming loneliness.
Ah ~ ! After translating this thing, I suddenly feel like a pervert . . I have no idea what I'm talking about. Poetry is something that ordinary people can't translate.