In plain words
Āṇṭāḷ, to her mothers: I lie caught in the net of the Supreme One who slept on a tender banyan leaf full of milk; do not say whatever comes to you, as cruel as punching a hole in me with a spear. Bring the fresh, cool, lovely tulasi of the pot-dancer who, as a cowherd, grazed the herds with his staff, and who lies at Kuṭantai, and put it on my soft, curling hair.