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.