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.