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.