In plain words
The poet, of Vēṅkaṭam: Vēṅkaṭam, where the old chieftains of the hill folk, near the end of their days, sow fresh millet in the furrows the wild boars have ploughed by rooting deep, and where the bamboo, though cut down, springs up again and rises till it opens the sky: that is the hill of the Lord [Kaṇṇaṉ] who long ago, one day, set the sweet flute to his lips.