August 31, 1931 - December 2, 2014
I think you didn't mean to be a god
when first you knew that blades would be your wings.
In stolen, silver moments you were free,
as steel carved ice in runes of what would be.
While those who worship blades as sacred things
so envied you that flight, when they must plod.
The river's freedom melted under lights
within the boarded confines of your stage.
As river dreamers spoke your name in sighs
their elders watched with judgement in their eyes;
celebrity a comfortable cage,
through sparkling days and legendary nights.
You shouldered all you must, though in your soul
you never yearned for more than was your lot.
But worship is a blade as sharp as steel
re-carving idols out of men once real.
A gilded name, a dream by many sought
Immortal now, regardless of the toll.
Sleep well, Mr.Beliveau. Your game and your country are poorer without you.