In plain words
The poet, of Tirumāliruñcōlai: The hill of the Father, where the spirits devoted to him strike down [those who turn from him] till they are scattered, make an evening offering of their red blood [to the Lord] and worship there as at their treasure for times of danger, is lovely Tirumāliruñcōlai, where the red velvet-mites lie scattered over the slopes as if to match our Lord's fruit-red lips.