Review of Soleil Vibrant by Yaroslavna Lasytsya

Upon a sun-struck patio there languishes a Bengal cat, indolent sovereign of the afternoon. Her eyes, twin chalices of molten gold and green, brim with citrus-bright sparks, as though bergamot and lime had conspired to kindle them. Her whole demeanour is composed of a serene amiability; she is sweetness made flesh, repose given feline form. She reclines, as bright ginger cradled in the aromatic embrace of pear, appearing to the casual passer-by a creature utterly tamed. Innocent. Inviting. Sunrays, dance upon her spotted copper coat, tracing fleeting mosaics of light and shadow. About her, jasmine and orange blossom are in fervent bloom, and she, motionless as an antique idol, presides over their fragrant court. The air is heavy with a rich and enveloping perfume, distilled from a multitude of noble flowers. They seem to worship her; for whom else, if not this gilded priestess of indolence, would they dare to blossom with such prodigal abandon? Sweet and tender, with an exotic whisper of velvet saffron, they hymn her with their invisible choruses. They sing of their delight, of spring’s awakening splendour, of sap-stirred woods and quickened fields, of songbirds in the boughs and great migratory flocks winging their way home from remote and forgotten horizons. Their petals, in languorous descent, caress her fur as they fall, then scatter and hide, laughing, behind the sumptuous drapery of Bourbon vanilla. Its sweetness descends like a cloud gone slightly tipsy, having lost its way between the ardent spears of sunlight and the vapours of aged bourbon. Overwhelmed by such exuberance and clamour, it comes at last to rest in a soft effusion around the cat. Her fur, glimmering with hues of molten copper and honey, catches this velvety haze of scent, until the very air about her is perfumed with adoration and delighted gossip. The cat remains unperturbed. She blinks her shining bergamot eyes, tranquil and content, untouched by the rapture that surrounds her. All this attention, this fragrant tumult, is but distant music to her sovereign mind. She is a graceful mistress of the moment, receiving tributes with a light disdain and a certain nonchalant hauteur. Yet, attuned to the smoothness of the notes that weave about her, she partakes in them with secret pleasure, finding repose amid the bustle. Around her, time itself seems to still; she abides outside the haste and clamour of early spring. She languishes in the sweet perfume of blossoms and fruits, and they, in turn, exult in the rare honour of her undivided regard. The woods beyond are yet young; their juices rise, rendering them milky, warm, and tender with awakened life. They offer as yet no shade, no coolness of damp, dark earth. Not yet. For now, all is yielded to the blossoms. It is their hour—to flutter, enchant, and bewitch with their mortal splendour before it is scattered to the winds. And so the Bengal lies, enthroned in this delectable paradise that the heedless world, racing past, neglects to see. Only the cat has mastered the arcane art of transcendent stillness. Her existence, radiant and fragrant in the vivid present, unfolds in secrecy—unravelled and unseen, unspoilt and undisturbed. She is eternal in her repose, like the Vibrant Sun itself, which diffuses its generous light upon all creatures in equal measure.