In plain words
Yaśōdā longs: "Like a pot of sugarcane juice opened and welling over, he laughs kaṇakaṇa in delight, comes and stands before me and gives me kisses, my one coloured like a cloud, with Śrī on his holy chest; to me who bore him he gives the nectar of his mouth and makes me flourish like a young shoot: won't he walk his toddling walk over the heads of the foes who strike at him?"