We are alone on this stage in a vast cosmic arena.
Think of all the rivers of blood spilled by the generals and emperors,
So that in glory and triumph they could become momentary masters of a dot.

Think of the endless men fighting and dying for a God they're not sure exists.
War and famine at what price?
We tell ourselves what we're doing is right,

But we're so f*cking wrong.
How frequent our misunderstandings,
How eager we are to kill.

Look back at the pale blue dot,
And try to convince yourself
God created the universe for a mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam.