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.