In plain words
The poet, of the hill Gōvardhana: His red-lotus hand, bearing the mark of the flag, and its fingers lost none of their beauty and did not wilt, and his lovely nails did not even ache: the sapphire-coloured one's lifting of the hill was a feat of magic. That hill, where many banks of great clouds have climbed onto its peak and settled there to dwell everywhere, like a forehead gone grey in front, and pour down rain, is Gōvardhana, the victorious umbrella.