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.