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.