Eulogy at my friend's funeral

Eulogy at my friend’s funeral

My pen name will henceforth be known
as Mountain Goat, meanderer of the heights,
eater of oats, pawer after stubble: rastrojos de difuntos.
 
I am now learning Spanish--rastrojos de difuntos
comes from Elegía a Ramón Sijé» by Miguel Hernández.
Spanish is not the problem. I’ve gained a certain level
of competence, I guess, and just look up what I don’t know.
Rastrojos, for instance: it means stubble.
So, stubble of the dead.
The poet is the gardener of a grave. So, it makes sense,
in the end. I am so hungry standing here;
I forgot to eat breakfast. And the wind is cold.
Should have worn a jacket.
 
The next few years will be hard ones. I have a lot to learn.
Not just Spanish, but cooking. Soup will be my mantra.
It’s so depressing to think how difficult it is to make soup:
all the ingredients mingling around, each influences the other.
How much salt to use, peppers, cilantro and all those different spices.
Infinity in a bowl. Where does one stop…or begin?
 
But I, Mountain Goat, will paw my way there. Down through
the rastrojos, into the bed of the dead,
just to listen for the Spanish,
for the recipes, how to grow the garden,
and how to calm his favorite, Ramón, who likes to kick up dust.
So, in the end, Chivo, it makes some sense.