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.