When, in the evening, I return home,
I hardly have the will to speak.
Do not gaze at me with such tenderness
as if I were a child who returned disappointed.
Yes, I know, that this is most certainly not the life
that you envisioned one day for us.
You will see, you will see, you will see that it will change—
perhaps not tomorrow but one fine day it will change.
You will see, you will see that I am not yet finished.
I cannot tell you how or when, but all will change.
I would rather know that you cry—
that you reproach me for having disappointed you—
and not to see you always so sweet.
Accept all that comes from me,
it makes me think more of you,
and I cannot give you more than that of me.
You will see, you will see, you will see that it will change—
perhaps not tomorrow but one fine day it will change.
You will see, you will see that I am not yet finished.
I cannot tell you how or when, but all will change.