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.