“Magic Grass,” by He Qifang 何其芳 (1912-1977), has been published in Eleven Eleven in Canaan Morse’s translation. Prose by a poet, it begins:

The books on magic speak of a certain species of miraculous grass, whose power is such that not even the most complex and difficult lock can withstand it. The words uncap my imagination. From deep within the mountains the harvesters come searching for it, bright blue-green, to close it tightly inside a wooden box and leave to dry for many days; then when it is dry and yellowed, it possesses unmatched arcane power. Grief has long held me captive in darkness and mystery, left me pacing up and down before my own door like a man banished from Paradise. Sometimes, I would rather be one of those children peddling matches—go out in the frigid night and scrape golden sparks from off the wall like opening a window, maybe catch a glimpse of happiness shimmering inside. Only now do I realize that the key I am searching for is really a blade of grass, extinct from common use and unknown to men.

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