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.