The first step is to enter Tsvetaeva’s language, to hear her repeated, obsessive accents. Hearing the accumulation of words and consonants, feeling the tongue like a fruit from which you want to extract every last drop of juice. Hear the sound of stone, the sound of dry heather. Hear the sound of gray, the sound of old age, the sound of the wind. To hear the fawn’s exhaustion, to hear its ode to the trees, to hear the trees launch themselves to open their lungs to the sky. And this language, through André’s voice, will meet the music, the cello, sometimes the two intertwining, sometimes the music dashing off on its own. Guided by him, André, the sounds would lead us to meaning, so we’d move forward step by step.