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.