In plain words
The poet, longing for Śrīraṅgam: Tumburu and Nārada, rapt in joy, fill their lutes with sweet music beyond compare, fall at his feet and praise him, and Brahmā, seated on the eternal lotus [of his navel], bows and praises him without ceasing with the hymns of the ancient Vedas that have no match. The sapphire-hued Lord lies on the serpent bed in walled Araṅgam, abounding in wealth and in jewelled, many-storeyed mansions. When will the day come, I wonder, when I see him and my flower-crowned head bows down before him?