A Bunch of Roses

                       She was happy in her marriage
                     Even though her husband was cold.
                          The man had a bad temper
                  And she complained he was never tender.
                         For more than three years,
              She received mysterious letters from a stranger
                              Full of poetry.

                    Who could it be writing her verses,
                      Please tell me who could it be.
               Who could be sending her flowers in the spring
                              Who could it be?
                        Every twenty-ninth of April
                          As always without a card
                    Someone sends her a bunch of roses.

                     Sometimes she ponders and imagines
                           Who that man would be
               Would he be the man with a smile in his eyes,
                    With open laughter and tender hands,
                      The one that suffers in silence.

                       And thus she lives day by day
                     With the illusion of being loved.
                             And every evening,
                      When her husband comes back home
              Tired from the working day looks at her slightly
                He says nothing because he knows something.
              He knows she is happy with those little secrets,
                      Because he is the secret lover.
                 But she pretends to know nothing about it,
               Only looks at her husband and keeps silent...

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