In plain words
The poet, of Vēṅkaṭam: The pilgrims who stay on the path to the hill are so long there that their masses of hair grow from the front and hang down behind, and the flowering creepers, not knowing them for men, take them for little hills and cling to them, never leaving. Vēṅkaṭam, the hill famed for its dashing streams, is the only hill we long for.