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.