I, the Pale Blue Dot, a home of intelligent life; I, the third child of the sun, I, this fearless voyager into the vast expanse of observable universe:

I call you to action.

From the hearth of my soaring canyons and mountains, you, my children, were born. You named yourselves human beings. Homo sapiens. People. The sun nurtured your straightening backs. My waters filled your open mouths. My sweet air filled your gasping lungs.

I was the home of your one civilization, as it unearthed in different corners of your known world. You touched greatness, and I wept in joy. You reached for the heavens, and we were both blinded.

But as you gained heights, you lost humanity; and the sounds of your bloodshed echo deep in my heart, etched in the ultimatum of time. Thus you vowed to end the destruction; you, my child, looked me in the eye and affirmed burial would no longer sing of premature ends. Years crumbled in that pretense, but your treaty is crumbling, too. You have turned to a different kind of annihilation: one that cannot be undone when it has reigned long enough. 

I felt it at the very beginning, I know now. But they were small chinks, little bits and pieces falling from me where your hands tinkered. Still your masterpiece would be my end, and you force us both down that path in gaining speed. See the road fall into unstable territory; watch familiar horizons die away. Please stop; I beg of you. 

You were not ungrateful. No, you were ignorant. By dropping your poisonous creations into my waters, you dyed them the color of decay. By cluttering lands with the excess of wasteful times, wasteful moves, you choke me under the weight of your oblivion. And with every piece of nature you send into the sky—in ashes—you bring the death smoke upon us, choking us into nothingness.

Can you not remember back to the glory days of Venus? My sister was a beautiful world once, full of lush color and roaring harmony. But she was doomed from the day she was born. The death smoke was in her veins, in the life she breathed, and her failure is a black mark on our maturing history. Yet you choose to ignore it.

I know what the death smoke looks like, and I have spent years coughing on its refuse. I know the sound as it burns my eyes and melts the icy white poles, my children, my children. I know its chemical makeup, what you call CO2.

And you know this. You have known this for a long time.

You have for generations, for years of locked hearts and frightened voices. It is better, you decide, to focus on the now.

Well, the Now is this: you write our history, and you, my dear children, are strangers to me as you scramble to write our ending a tragedy. Your eyes are so dilated upon what lies under your nose that you cannot see ahead; you allow the death smoke to make it disappear. Until one day, you will not see the ending coming. It will appear, and silently, suddenly, crush everything you have begun.

You cannot see we are connected. I, Earth, and you, my reigning kings and queens of Life, we are intermarried, we are mother and son, we are soul sisters. There has never been a rift in this marriage, this deep love, but your greed threatens to turn all the tables, and in turn, yours as well.

Oh, but you have kissed me so sweetly before, and now slap me, beat me until I cannot stand, watch the colors run from my face. Now I lie dying.

I am calling summons to the Guardians of Planet Earth.

I am calling summons to those who have not forgotten their past, and dare to look to the future.

I am calling summons to you.

Before it is too late…my children.