In plain words
A woman tells it: When Gōvinda played the flute, his little fingers stroking the stops and moving over it, his red eyes curving, his red lips drawn close at the corners, his brows beaded with fine sweat and arching, flocks of birds left their nests, came and gathered round him and lay still like a felled forest, and herds of milch-cows stood with legs spread and heads bowed low, unable even to flick their ears.