In plain words
The poet, of the Lord: There are scars on his lovely hands where the string of the Śārṅga bow rubbed; there are scars on his feet from kicking apart the cart [where a demon hid]; and there are scars on the fingers of the Lord whose hue is that of the swelling waves, who tore open the chest of the one named for gold [Hiraṇya] while the Lady with flowers in her hair [Śrī] trembled.