In plain words
Āṇṭāḷ, to her mothers: Whether I weep or worship him, he will not show me his form; that great one will not even say, 'Do not fear'; yet in my mind he comes in, holds me tight, swirls all about me and will not leave, alas. Neṭumāl, in his deep love, comes playing his flute behind the herds, under a grove of peacock-feather parasols: bring the water from the holes of that flute and stroke it cool upon my face.