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.