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.