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.