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.