In plain words
The poet, to the Lord, fearing that harm may come to his beauty in this world ruled by time: Many years, many years, many thousands of years, many crores of hundreds of thousands of years [counted as men count them, as the gods do, as Brahmā does, and as countless Brahmās do]! O Lord the colour of a sapphire, whose mighty shoulders subdued and slew the wrestlers [Cāṇūra and Muṣṭika], may holy protection guard the beauty of your red feet.