In plain words
The poet, to the Lord: O Cowherd [Kṛṣṇa], who dwell for ever in cool Kuṭantai, with its cool fields fenced with red paddy, its wide tanks and flowering groves, and its lovely, towering mansions! O hero, bow in hand, who bent your bow so that the heads of Kālanemi, Vakra [Dantavakra] and the cruel Mura went to join Death!