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.