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.