In plain words
The poet, of Vēṅkaṭam: The elephant on the holy hill rinses its mouth [as before worship] with the rut-fluid that runs into it, washes its feet with the rut-fluid that pours down to the ground like a stream, and with its trunk takes flowers burst open and full of heady honey; and seeing only the mighty Lord of Vēṅkaṭam, it bows in worship.