Close Poem by Ibn Ali

They said that anything that's on its way is close,
And you've departed, so hurry home,
Long gasps of breaths abated,
A few have come and gone
Whilst I was waiting,
So hurry home,
Anything that's on its way is close,
And you've already left,
Come draped in black and veiled,
piety's rare, and beauty common,
I'd recognise your soul,
My intuition mustn't fail,
So hurry home,
Anything that's on its way is close,
I feel that you're near,
I'm growing tired of waiting
Some days when I awake from death
In rigor mortise state
I turn for you and you're not there,
I'm a child again, disappointed,
You're a fitting feast for my desire,
Some sin might abate the hunger
But I'd rather remain famished
And wait for you to feed me,
So hurry home,
Perhaps you'll come to me a stranger,
Will we begin as friends,
Or will friendship develop later,
Come quickly,
You were sent for,
And anything that's on its way is close,
And I'm your final destination.