In plain words
The poet, to the Lord: O my Lord, of the hue of the rain-cloud, the right-whorled conch and the discus are in your hands; the Lady of the flower [Śrī] dwells on your chest; Brahmā, who chants the perfect Veda, is at your navel; and he who would be lord [Śiva], who shot the three great walled cities, has his place in one corner of your body.