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.