In plain words
The poet, of the Lord: Vēṅkaṭam, where the striped, crawling snake, seeing the great gem the clever hill-hunters fling to drive off the great elephants, takes it for lightning in the clouds and slips into its anthill, is the place of Māl, the place the exalted immortals [the nityasūris] claim, saying, ‘It is ours.’