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In plain words
When will the queen of the archer whose bow is the golden mountain purify the path of our eyes: the hall where the arts play, the stream of autumn moonlight on the lily groves of poets' words, whose crown is graced by the young moon, eager in her friendship with the Kampā's sandy bank?
Word for word
The arts' play-hall, the autumn-moonlight-stream of the night-lily grove of the poet-race's speech, young-moon-praiseworthy-crowned, purifies our, eager with friendship of the Kampā's sand-bank, when, the eye-path, the queen of the golden-mountain archer?