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.