In plain words
Āṇṭāḷ, to the cuckoo: Cuckoo, who pick through the champak flowers dripping honey and sing for joy: the flawless one, who holds in his left hand the pure white conch that calls [those eager to serve], will not show me his form. He enters my heart and wastes me away, and every day he breathes life back into me only to watch me writhe. Stay near me and, with no idle play, warble your soft words, and call my Lord of Vēṅkaṭam to come.