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.