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 
 Indisciminatory,  They Hurt But Deal  No 
 Long  Time  Damage  To The  Wielder. The 
 Next Five  You  Must Spend  Wisely, They 
 Will Take  Days To Heal.  The Next  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.