The Invocation of Anthropolis

A Benediction for the Living World

I. The Remembering

In the beginning there was belonging. The forest was our first cathedral, the river our first teacher, the night sky our first philosophy. We built from what we loved, and we loved what we built.

Then came the forgetting — the fever of control, the gospel of profit, the long exile into noise and neon. We mistook power for purpose, and in our blindness called it progress.

But even in the concrete wasteland, the seed remembered the forest. Even beneath the parking lot, the mycelium whispered, come home.

And we did.

II. The Awakening

We began again — not with conquest, but with care.

We gathered in circles, not hierarchies. We learned to build as the bees build, to think as the rivers flow, to govern as the forests grow.

Our villages became organs of the Earth — breathing, cycling, sensing.

Our technologies learned humility, our economies learned rhythm, our hearts learned silence.

The polis returned, not as empire but as ecology —a living architecture of cooperation, a civilization of stewardship.

We remembered that the sacred does not reside in heaven, but in the hum of the world that sustains us.

III. The Covenant

We vowed:

We will take only what can be renewed.

We will make only what can be repaired.

We will design only what can belong.

We will not measure worth in wealth, but in the continuity of life.

We will see knowledge as a river, not a vault; power as responsibility, not dominion.

We will honor the soil as ancestor and the future as child.

We will speak for those without speech — the coral, the crow, the unborn wind.

We will legislate with compassion, and create with reverence.

Our constitution is the breath between giving and taking.

Our nation is the Earth itself.

IV. The Renewal

In the villages of light, music returns to architecture.

In the fields, carbon returns to soil.

In the hearts of the people, meaning returns to labor.

Children grow beneath living roofs and learn the languages of rain.

Elders sit beneath fruit trees planted by their grandchildren.

The economy hums like a hive, powered by generosity and design.

No one is homeless, for the polis itself is home.

No one is voiceless, for governance is song.

No one is alone, for all are held within the circle.

V. The Benediction

Let this be the age when the human remembers the human.

When art redeems science, and science sanctifies art.

When cities breathe and forests speak.

Let this be the century of restoration —

when love becomes law, and law becomes life.

Let the hands of makers be blessed,

the words of teachers be honored,

the dreams of children be protected.

Let every building grow from compassion,

every policy from conscience,

every technology from truth.

Let the Earth, at last, rest in the arms of her own creation.

VI. The Continuation

And when we are gone —

when our villages return to soil,

when our archives dissolve into starlight —

let the future say:

They remembered.

They rebuilt the world in the image of belonging.

They made of civilization not a weapon, but a garden.

For this is Anthropolis —

the polis reborn through empathy,

the city become sanctuary,

the human become whole.

So let it be sung.

So let it be lived.

So let it endure.