Ivan Bodhidharma heads for the south on the wings of spring.
He drinks from the creek, from ice-covered stream.
He holds in his hands the geography maps of all our passions and dreams.
And the white tiger is mute, and the blue dragon sings.
He will cure those who hear, and maybe those who are smart.
And he will show to those who want to know
The blessed times of the past
He passes by buildings where humans are trying to change the course of their lives
He's lighter than smoke. Through the plastic and tin
Ivan Bodhidharma can see a tree, in every lamp post of street lights
And if its brighter outside, then, perhaps, he's already here.
He will cure those who hear, and maybe those who are smart.
And he will show to those who want to know
The blessed times of the past
