In  The  Endless  Winter   Day,  On  The 
 Crystal  White Plains... We Trudge Along 
  The Train Tracks... Themselves Slowly   
 Snowed  Over, In The  Still  Hours Since 
          The Last Supply Train.          
                                          
     Bell-Like Sounds Of The Blinding     
 Ground. Rifles  Attached  To Our  Wrist, 
 Sharing In  Our  Bloodstream.  My Husky, 
      My Warm-Coffee-In-Cold-Snow...      
                                          
 The  First  Five  Shots  You  Can  Spend 
 Indiscriminately, They Hurt But  Deal No 
 Long Time Damage  To  The  Shooter.  The 
 Next Five  You Must Spend  Wisely,  They 
 Will Take  Days To  Heal. The Final Five 
 You    Must    Not    Spend    At   All. 
                                          
 Weeks Earlier, In The  Weak Autumn Dawn, 
 In  The  Blue-Gray  Fog... Something  Is 
 Burning  With  A  Deep   Crimson  Flame, 
       Untameable By Water Or Wind.