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Priscila Ubriaco


Jacaranda: this foreign-sounding word that speaks of home. The word dances in my mouth as the seasons dance in my mind. Jacarandas. They will bloom. Popping here and there. September. October. Every year, the same. I walk through the city. Purple flowers carpet my ways, And carry promises with them. They bring joy. They bring hope. It will rain again. It will be fine again. There will be summer once more.


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