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.