The March rain and smoke, the swaying south

You sit in your empty rice store

You hold an apple in one hand and your fate in the other

In search of your own fragrance

The people outside the window are in a hurry

Throwing their eyes on the wet road

Your dance moves across the empty room

Turned into smoke by time

The March rain and smoke, the swaying south

You sit in your empty rice store

You hold an apple in one hand and your fate in the other

In search of your own fragrance

The people outside the window are in a hurry

Throwing their eyes on the wet road

Your dance moves across the empty room

Turned into smoke by time