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.