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.