Un ramito de violetas [English translation]

She was happy in her marriage,

although her husband was the same devil,

the man had a bit of bad temper

and she was complaining that he wasn’t never tender.

For more than three years now,

she receives letters from a strange,

letters full of poetry,

that have given back her Joy.

Who was writing verses to her?,

tell me, who was he?!,

Who was sending her flowers for Spring?,

Who, every November 9,

as usual,

without card,

was sending her a bunch of Violets?

Sometimes she dreams and she imagines,

how will be the one who esteems her so much,

Would be he a man with gray hair,

opened smile, and tenderness in the hands?...

She doesn’t knows who suffers in silence,

who can be her secret Love?,

And she lives like this, from day to day,

with the illusion of being loved.

Who was writing verses to her?,

tell me, who was he?!!!,

Who was sending her flowers for Spring?,

Who, every November 9,

as usual,

without card,

was sending her a bunch of Violets?

And every evening, when her husband returns,

tired of work, he looks at her sideways,

he says nothing,

because he knows everything,

he knows she’s happy, like this, anyway,

because he is who writes verses to her,

he is her lover, her secret Love,

and she,

who knows nothing,

looks at her husband,

and then,

she shut up.

Who was writing verses to her?,

tell me, who was he?!!,

Who was sending her flowers for Spring?,

Who, each November 9,

as usual,

without card,

was sending her a little bunch of Violets?