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.