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.