In plain words
The poet, to the Lord: On the milk-white flood you spread the matchless serpent [Ādiśeṣa] as a mattress, and on it you take your feigned sleep [of yoga]; out of longing to know whether I might see that way of yours, my heart melts, I swell with joy and choke, overwhelmed, the hair stands up all over my body, tears drip from my eyes in drops, and on my bed I get no sleep. Tell me how I may reach you.