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.