In plain words
The poet, of Araṅgam: Hiraṇya relied on the strength [of his boons]; the Lord pressed the tips of his claws into that gleaming chest until they went right through it, held his head and crushed it, so that the crown shattered, the eyes bulged and the mouth cried out, and roared [for joy at ending his devotee's foe]. His temple is cool Araṅgam, where lotus blooms grown lush rise high like the red foot that measured the world, and the red paddy in ear, growing by the ridges, stretches out its stalks and bows its head.