And in those minutes.
The silent machinegun between her fingers, slips onto her wrists and frozen limbs; the wing bends the bow and thrusts to flight.

Margherita, Mara to her companions, Vera as a girl and now, Vera again, in the woman's handbag, with the haversack abandoned. Margherita or Mara Cagol, and now, again Vera, and Perini, by the name of the road where she lived a child.

And after.
A bunch of red flowers from those who loved her and on the walls of the underground in great Loreto Square, posters, for the memory of those who believed in her. From her comrades in arms a greeting: "Mara, a flower has blossomed! May a thousand arms reach forth and take your gun!".

And after that.
Amid the democratic chants of the professional antifascists mumbling democracy and freedom, official and institutional orations announce: "We must clearly say that any political motivation attributed by the brigands to their insane and criminal acts, finds no agreement in the people's conscience, or in the political and historical traditions of our people …"

It may be, observes Benedetto Croce, that "new experiences to which we are drawn by the course of events and new needs that are aroused within us, on matching and linking reasonably closely with those of another time, bring it to life, almost in the way that certain images of Christs and Madonnas are narrated, which bring forth red blood after being wounded by the words and deeds of some blasphemer and sinner".

Brigands for insane and criminal acts? And the Carabinieri, taken by surprise, who fell, in the unforeseen fire?

A farmer witnessed, chewing a cardoon.
On the Arzello lookout point, Spiotta farm and the prisoner, a kidnapping for self-financing. It is a man; for sparkling wines, for dry Asti wines; his appearance, pallid, fearful, perhaps, transfixed, in the end.
The blood chills and the flesh is salty, for all.
And the lifeless "angel with a machinegun", the fruit of thirty spring constellations, in the abyss of the final nocturnal Aries? And for Mara too, the last Garden.

Doubt drowns the mind and nails the pace onto the impossible political reflection, onto the grudges of deflated ideologies, onto the hopes in the future, onto the faiths experienced, onto the swarms of empty talking officials.
The justice of the poor decorates thick, impossible wefts with arabesques. Sociology in Trento with her fist raised. Mara, a guitar from the academy of music and a bride blessed by the priest to sing justice in the faith of the believer. In Milan with the metropolitan political Collective.
A maternity denied for the season of struggles, with the tears of the woman and the Christian bride.
   …
"And she who saw the vacillating thoughts
   Within my mind, said: The first circles
   Have shown you Seraphim and Cherubim.
   …
Those other loves twirling within the next circle,
   Call themselves the Thrones of Gazing-on-the-Godhead,
   As they bring the first triad to an end.
   …
The other triad that thus flowers
   During this eternal springtime,
   Which no nightly Aries can despoil,
   …
Within this hierarchy, these divinities are found:
   First Dominions, and then Virtues;
   The third order are the Powers.
Next to the last, dance Principalities
   And there Archangels whirl in the last round;
   The whole great ring is where the Angels play".
   ...

From the Garden the last angels with machineguns have flown; almost in droves they entered history, sunken into the collective subconscious.
The proletariat revolt enriches the banks of capital, and the working class sharpens the sword of the crusades. In the West, and in the East too, and in the even greater Orient.

In the Garden there is no light for the angel with a machinegun.