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.