olive tree oligarchy

It was under red wine and olive trees,
we spoke of women
we'd never know.
Where the sun baked our
socialism;
we cut our feet on the glass
of bourgeois ways.
The cigarettes started singing
choruses of flames
in the tall grass of our camp site,
dehydrated by the summer.
The panic was dulled by the
aforementioned wine.
Though the moon never shone;
we were preoccupied
with the cuts on our feet.
We fermented our gold.
We became alchemists.