In plain words
The poet, to the Lord: O Lord of all, who went without shrinking and crushed the bulls! Śiva, whose form, reddened [with anger], is distinct and fitted to his work of destruction, who smears himself with ashes and sets the single-streaked crescent moon on his tangled matted hair, held a skull fast in his hand: tell me why you filled it with the red blood that welled from your own body.