In plain words
The poet, to the Lord: With a crooked tongue I have spoken poor verses, O you whose hand holds the conch and the discus; but even if they do wrong, is it not the duty of the great to bear with their own servants' words? Other than your eyes, I have no eyes that look on me [to protect me], and my heart will not cling to anyone else. Mark this: one more spot on a spotted deer is no fault [so bearing one more fault of mine is no blemish to you], O you who swallowed the seven worlds at the end of the age and brought them out again.