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.