As a man, I wear purple
not for pride, but for power unspoken,
a shade that carries echoes of battles endured
and spirits that refused to break.
In its depth, I see them,
women of this land, rising still,
South African queens
carrying suns through storms.
Purple.
the color of bruises becoming bloom,
a quiet reminder
that pain can give birth to power.
I see it in the mother
who prays before dawn exhales,
in the sister
who stands unshaken before the edge of fear.
The Zulu woman, thunder across open plains,
the Xhosa queen, her laughter slicing through sorrow,
the Sotho lady, her kindness worn like gold,
the Tswana spirit, unyielding, unbroken, untold.
The Coloured woman, joy stitched into every line,
the Indian sister, grace that outlives time,
the Black woman, my backbone, my fire, my art,
the White woman, steady, with an open heart.
As a man, I see them all,
not fragile, but sacred,
their strength a rhythm
that lives within my spine.
So I wear purple
not for myself, but for them,
for every woman
who rises,
again and again.
Apr 25
Apr 25, 2026 at 7:16 AM UTC
As a man, I wear purple
not for pride, but for power unspoken,
a shade that carries echoes of battles endured
and spirits that refused to break.
In its depth, I see them,
women of this land, rising still,
South African queens
carrying suns through storms.
Purple.
the color of bruises becoming bloom,
a quiet reminder
that pain can give birth to power.
I see it in the mother
who prays before dawn exhales,
in the sister
who stands unshaken before the edge of fear.
The Zulu woman, thunder across open plains,
the Xhosa queen, her laughter slicing through sorrow,
the Sotho lady, her kindness worn like gold,
the Tswana spirit, unyielding, unbroken, untold.
The Coloured woman, joy stitched into every line,
the Indian sister, grace that outlives time,
the Black woman, my backbone, my fire, my art,
the White woman, steady, with an open heart.
As a man, I see them all,
not fragile, but sacred,
their strength a rhythm
that lives within my spine.
So I wear purple
not for myself, but for them,
for every woman
who rises,
again and again.
A mans diamond in the rough
