In plain words
The poet, to the Lord of Araṅgam: O you who dwell in the great city of Araṅgam! Your form is like a great green mountain, your mouth is coral, your eyes red lotuses. This is my sweetness: calling you ‘Acyuta [who never lets go of his own], chief of the eternal attendants [nityasūris], foremost of the cowherds’. Even if I could gain that other sweetness, of going away from here and ruling the world of the Supreme [Paramapadam] in place of this, I would not want it.