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.