Review of Bois Talisman by Yaroslavna Lasytsya

Golden spark of sweetness, like a falling star, is quickly veiled by incense smoke. A mauve-grey vapor rises, like a curtain of early autumn fog. One sees through it, and yet cannot know with certainty whether what is seen is truly there. The woods emerge from this fragrant haze. Their forms are sharp, ascending, clean in their freshness, with a spiciness that is almost stern. One does not need sight to perceive them: their scent fills the air and pierces the smoke like arrows, bright and pointed. Someone has begun to harvest the trees. The cedar’s aroma is raw and loud, as though the tree were giving up its heart and soul in its last hour. The fallen trunk itself may remain unseen, but the accords of its final song are everywhere. And one cannot help but stop and think: have these woods been condemned entirely, or only a few among them whose lives could not be spared? We do not often think of the fate of woodlands when we sit in their cool shade in summer. In winter we look away from them, because they appear so bare and wasted without their foliage. Unless winter covers them in such rich snow that we laugh and say the trees have put on fur coats. But here, in this smoke, we know nothing clearly of their condition. We only know that the woods are there. Somewhere ahead. And then a breath of sweetness slips through. At times it appears like golden dust, faintly shining in the air. It turns the smoky fog into a veil, light, but still perceptible to the senses. It gathers slowly. With each fresh breath it advances. Soon one can almost touch it. It brushes the skin like a young fox or a hurrying squirrel. And with this touch, melancholy steps back. Heavy thoughts withdraw. For such is life: it ebbs and flows along a path we imagine ourselves to be directing. How foolish that is. Yes, today we may choose which trees fall and which continue on their way. And yet the woods stood for ages before we walked upon this earth, and they will stand for ages after us too. After our cities crumble to dust. After our traces are erased. All things change under the sun. And the woods are like enchanted guardians. Whether we see them through the haze of our arrogance or not, it matters little to them. Their presence is the only thing that remains.