। ॥ ११ ॥
In plain words
I meditate upon the reddish life-breaths of the moon-crested Lord—whose braided hair shames the beauty of Yamunā, whose voice eclipses the lute in Sarasvatī's hands, and whose sidelong glances easily surpass the darting eyes of a frightened deer, bearing endless fresh shoots of divine beauty.
Close to the Sanskrit
I worship the reddish life-forces of the moon-crested Lord, which astonish through their braid's beauty the lovely braid of the sun's daughter, whose sounds put to shame the noble lute held in Sarasvatī's hand, and whose eye-corners are expert in refuting the glances of deer-eyed women, bearing fresh sprouts of beauty.