Un ramito de violetas [English translation]

She was happy in her marriage,

even though her husband was a real demon.

Her man had a rather bad temper,

she used to complain that he was never tender.

For already over three years

she's been receiving letters from a stranger,

lyrical letters full of poetry,

that have brought her back the happiness.

Who is the one who writes to her poems? Tell me who!

Who was sending her flowers in the spring time?

Who every ninth of November,

always without any card,

was sending her a posy of violets?

Sometimes she dreams and tries to imagine

who could be the one who admires her so much.

Would it be a faithful man with grey hair,

sincere smile and tender hands?

She doesn't know who suffers in silence,

who could be her secret lover,

and she lives like that day by day

with the illusion of being loved.

Who is the one who writes to her poems? Tell me who!

Who was sending her flowers in the spring time?

Who every ninth of November,

always without any card,

was sending her a posy of violets?

And every afternoon when her husband returns home

tired of working, he looks at her with a crooked smile.

He doesn't say a word, because he knows everything,

he knows she's happy, even if this way only,

because he is the one who writes her poems,

he, her lover, her secret love.

And she, who doesn't know that,

looks at her husband and remains silent.

Who is the one who writes to her poems? Tell me who!

Who was sending her flowers in the spring time?

Who every ninth of November,

always without any card,

was sending her a posy of violets?