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.