Текст и перевод песни Natalia Oreiro - Un Ramito de Víolétas

Un Ramito de Víolétas

Era feliz en su matrimonio
Aunque su marido
Era el mismo demonio
Tenia el hombre un poco de mal genio
Y ella se quejaba de que nunca fue tierno
Desde hace ya mas de tres años
Recibe cartas de un extraño
Cartas llenas de poesia
Que le han devuelto la alegria
Quien le escribia versos
Dime quein era
Quien le mandaba flores
Por primavera
Y en cada 9 de noviembre
Como siempre sin tarjeta
Le mandaba un ramito de violetas
A veces sueña y se imagina
Como sera aquel que tanto estima
Seria un hombre mas bien de pelo cano
Sonrisa abierta y ternura en las manos
No sabe quien sufre en silencio
Quien puede ser su amor secreto
Y vive asi de dia en dia
Con la emocion de ser querida
Quien le escribia versos
Dime quein era
Quien le mandaba flores
Por primavera
Y en cada 9 de noviembre
Como siempre sin tarjeta
Le mandaba un ramito de violetas
Y cada tarde al volver su esposo
Cansado del trabajo la mira de reojo
No dice nada porque el lo sabe todo
Sabe que es feliz de cualquier modo
Porque el es quien le escribe versos
Es su amante su amor secreto
Y ella que no sabe nada
Mira a su marido y luego caya
Quien le escribia versos
Dime quein era
Quien le mandaba flores
Por primavera
Y en cada 9 de noviembre
Como siempre sin tarjeta
Le mandaba un ramito de violetas
Quien le escribia versos
Dime quein era
Quien le mandaba flores
Por primavera
Y en cada 9 de noviembre
Como siempre sin tarjeta
Le mandaba un ramito de violetas

A Bouquet of Violets

She was happy in her marriage
Although her husband
Was the very devil
The man had a bit of a temper
And she complained that he was never tender
For more than three years now
She's been receiving letters from a stranger
Letters full of poetry
That have brought back her joy
Who was writing her verses
Tell me who it was
Who was sending her flowers
In the springtime
And every November 9th
As always, without a card
He would send her a bouquet of violets
Sometimes she dreams and imagines
What he might be like, the one she holds dear
He would be a man with graying hair
A wide smile and tenderness in his hands
She doesn't know who suffers in silence
Who her secret love might be
And so she lives day by day
With the thrill of being loved
Who was writing her verses
Tell me who it was
Who was sending her flowers
In the springtime
And every November 9th
As always, without a card
He would send her a bouquet of violets
And every afternoon when her husband returned
Tired from work, he would glance at her
He doesn't say anything because he knows it all
He knows that she is happy anyway
Because he is the one who writes her verses
He is her lover, her secret love
And she, knowing nothing
Looks at her husband and then falls silent
Who was writing her verses
Tell me who it was
Who was sending her flowers
In the springtime
And every November 9th
As always, without a card
He would send her a bouquet of violets
Who was writing her verses
Tell me who it was
Who was sending her flowers
In the springtime
And every November 9th
As always, without a card
He would send her a bouquet of violets