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.