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.