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.