In plain words
The poet, waking the Lord: In the flowering groves the birds are calling; the night has gone and the dawn has come; the roar of the surging sea has spread through the east. The gods have come in to bow at your two feet, bearing lovely hanging garlands woven of many kinds of flowers, where drunken bees hum. And so, O Lord, you who lie in the temple where the king of the people of Laṅkā [Vibhīṣaṇa] offers worship: Our Lord, in grace, rise from your bed.