Juan Manuel

I'm preparing dinner for me and my husband while humming “a sprig of violets.” “He was happy in his marriage.” Although her husband was the devil himself The man had a bit of a bad temper And she complained that he was never cute." I continued cutting the vegetables while wishing my husband could be a little more tender For more than three years now “Receive letters from a stranger Letters full of poetry " That they have given her back her joy." I started thinking about the gifts that arrive at my house from time to time. “Who wrote her verses? Tell me, who was it? Who sent her flowers in spring? Who every November 9th?, as always, without a card He sent her a sprig of violets Sometimes she dreams and imagines What will the one who esteems her so much be like? He would be a more gray-haired man. Open smile and tenderness in the hands You don't know who suffers in silence Who could be her secret love? And live like this, from day to day With the illusion of being loved” I sighed as I continued cooking because he couldn't be like the husband in the song. I'm sure he's not the person sending me the gifts. And every afternoon, when her husband returns Tired of work, he looks askance at her He doesn't say anything because he knows everything He knows she's happy, just like that, anyway. Because he is the one who writes the verses Him, her lover, her secret love And she who knows nothing Look at her husband and then be silent when I turn around he is looking at me annoyed and tells me sternly Who sends you flowers?