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.