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.