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.