She was happy in her marriage
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Although her husband was the devil himself
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The man had a bit of a bad temper
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And she complained that he was never tender
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For more than three years now
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She's been getting letters from a stranger
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That have brought her joy back
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Who wrote her verses?
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Who sent her flowers in spring?
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Who every ninth of November
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Sent her a little bunch of violets?
Sometimes she dreams and imagines
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What the one that cherishes her so much is like
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He'd be a man with rather gray hair
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Wide smile and tenderness in his hands
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She doesn't know who suffers in silence
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Who could be her secret love
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And she lives like that, day by day
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With the hope of being loved
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Who sent her flowers in spring?
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Who every ninth of November
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Sent her a little bunch of violets?
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And every afternoon, when her husband comes back
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Tired from work, he glances at her sideways
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He doesn't say anything because he knows it all
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He knows she's happy like that, anyway
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Because he's the one that writes her verses
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He, her lover, her secret love
And she, who knows nothing
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Looks at her husband and then keeps quiet
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Who wrote her verses?
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Who sent her flowers in spring?
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Who every ninth of November
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As always with no card
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Sent her a little bunch of violets?