In plain words
The poet, longing for Śrīraṅgam: The serpent [Ananta], his body white as a conch, has a thousand matchless mouths that are full of praises, and he breathes out fire: the red flame he spits out without pause spreads everywhere, higher and higher, like a canopy above the Lord's crown of unfading flowers. Beneath it, on the serpent bed in fortified Araṅgam, lies Māl, the great one, like a garland of kāyā blossoms, Māyōṉ of wondrous deeds. When will the day come, I wonder, when I stand holding the fragrant pillars [before his shrine] and praise him to my mouth's content?