In plain words
The poet, surrendering to the Lord of Viṟṟuvakkōṭu: O Lord of Viṟṟuvakkōṭu, ringed by groves of flowers thick with fragrance! Even if you do not remove the sorrow [of this worldly existence] that you yourself give, there is no refuge for me but your feet. When the mother who bore it pushes it away in fierce anger, the infant still cries, thinking only of her love: I am just like that infant.