In plain words
The poet, to the Lord: You stand on Vēṅkaṭam [Tirumalai], where the tall bamboos bow to the ground when the thick, heavy mists pour down, and rise again, when the mist dries, to strike the sky. Are you not also Māl, who loves his devotees, lying in Kuṭantai, with its fertile pools and its lush, rich flowering groves, where the bees rise and settle and dwell?