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
For more than three years now
She's been getting letters from a stranger
That have brought her joy back
Who wrote her verses?
Who sent her flowers in spring?
Who every ninth of November
Sent her a little bunch of violets?
Sometimes she dreams and imagines
What the one that cherishes her so much is like
He'd be a man with rather gray hair
Wide smile and tenderness in his hands
She doesn't know who suffers in silence
Who could be her secret love
And she lives like that, day by day
With the hope of being loved
Who wrote her verses?
Who sent her flowers in spring?
Who every ninth of November
Sent her a little bunch of violets?
And every afternoon, when her husband comes back
Tired from work, he glances at her sideways
He doesn't say anything because he knows it all
He knows she's happy like that, anyway
Because he's the one that writes her verses
He, her lover, her secret love
And she, who knows nothing
Looks at her husband and then keeps quiet
Who wrote her verses?
Who sent her flowers in spring?
Who every ninth of November
Sent her a little bunch of violets?