She was happy in her marriage
Although her husband was the devil himself
The man had a bit of a bad temper
And she complained that he was never tender
Since It's been more than three years now
She receives letters from a stranger
Letters full of poetry
That have given her joy back
Who wrote the verses, tell me who it was
Who sent her flowers in spring
Who every November 9th
As always without a card
He sent her a bouquet of violets
Sometimes she dreams and imagines
What will the one who esteems her so much be like
He would be a more faithful man with gray hair
An open smile and tenderness in his hands
She doesn't know who suffers in silence
Who It could be her secret love
And she lives like this from day to day
With the illusion of being loved
Whoever wrote her verses tell me it was
Who sent her flowers in spring
Who every November 9th
As always without a card
He sent her a bouquet of violets
And every afternoon when her husband returned
Tired of work he looks at her out of the corner of his eye
No He says nothing because he knows everything
He knows that he is happy, anyway
Because he is the one who writes verses to him
Him, his lover, his secret love
And she who knows nothing
Looks at her husband and then remains silent
Who wrote verses for her, tell me who it was
Who sent her flowers in spring
Who every November 9th
Whoever sent her flowers every spring br/>As always without a card
He sent her a bouquet of violets