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.