In plain words
Kaṇṇaṉ, says Yaśōdā, in the wide fields where the red paddy stood tall as sugarcane, its ears still green, the herds of cows and calves bent down to graze, and you took up the one calf that would not graze and flung it so that the wood-apples fell, my Lord. Rogue, you roam about setting the net of your eyes round a young girl whose soft hair is thronged with bees: I know you now for what you are [the Lord, not my child]. I am afraid to give you my milk.