In plain words
The poet, of Vēṅkaṭam: The holy hill where the white moon comes close and creeps slowly over the tops of the broad peaks so that they rub its belly, and an angry tiger draws near and keeps watching the lovely hare in it: that is the mountain of the Cowherd [Kaṇṇaṉ], fragrant with the vēṅkai trees that flourish on its slopes.