In plain words
The poet, of Araṅgam: Neṭumāl, boundless in his love for his own, has a beauty of form cool as a cloud laden with water settling on the hills, lustrous as kuvaḷai flowers, deep as the roaring sea, bright as a flock of peacocks standing and dancing for joy: his town is the place called Araṅgam of the walls, where the south wind enters through the groves on the hills, touches the sandal-anointed breasts of women whose waists are slender as vines, and wanders through the squares.