In plain words
A woman tells it: When he played the flute, the matchless lord of the cowherds, wearing the feathers of the peacock's dark-eyed tail, girded well in yellow silk, his form adorned with rare jewels, the trees stood still and poured out streams of honey; their flowers fell, their upward-growing branches bent down, melted and folded together [like hands joined in worship], turning toward whatever side Tirumāl stood: how wondrous is what they do!