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.