In plain words
Āṇṭāḷ, of herself: In Māliruñcōlai, with its groves of blossoming kōṅku, I hang about in vain, like the golden garlands of blossom hanging idle on the koṉṟai trees. On what day, I wonder, will the sound of the conch [Pāñcajanya] he sets to his beautiful lips and blows, and the twang of the string of his bow Śārṅga, come near me?