In the cosmos, who determines the designs?
Who creates the stars, and who draws the line?
Am I the actor in a predestined play,
Or am I the narrator who holds the quill, forming the best story ever told in a way?

Can a single drop of rain question the ocean’s mighty
Or does it become one with the sea and lose its identity?
Am I the architect of fate,
Or in this riddle of existence are we all the same?

What is a fallen tree to the deafening silence of the forest with no ear?
Is my existence only validated when heard loud and clear?
If I am hidden in the darkness, does the sun brightly shine?
Is the universe but a reflection, of my consciousness divine?

Does the dart of time travel straight, or can it arch or sway?
If tomorrow mutters a secret, what would today say?
Is the present, past and future nothing but the illusion of my mind,
Or are they the stepping stones to the actuality we bind?

Can we discover the fringe of the universe, the origin of space?
Is there a creator, a composer, in this celestial embrace?
Or is it but a Möbius strip, a limitless twist,
In the loom of existence, does beginning or end exist?

In this universe, am I a free thinker,
Is my mind the sole philosopher,
Or is it but a fragment of a lone troubled lad?
In this shore of existence, we are but a grain of sand.

—Manvi Gupta, just graduated from high school, Madhya Pradesh, India. She adds: “I’m someone who is passionate about building ideas from the ground up and constantly learning, with a deep love for creative writing.”

Let it have meaning
When the thunder comes
Earth beating to the echoing drum of its beat
it will have meaning
the skies will alight
the rain will breathe life into the earth
and it will have meaning

When the fires light
Forests ravaged by the enraged flames
it will have meaning
the death will clear way for new growth
the ash will nourish the ground
and it will have meaning

When the darkness rears its head
Mind flooding with thoughts of escape
i can find no meaning
tears staining satin pillowcase
dread escaping, breathed in by those around me
there is no meaning

let sufferings occur
allow my soul and spirit to perish
my body crucified,
all i ask
let it have meaning

—Bansi Balar, age, 17, Texas. She adds: “While studying the poem ‘Dulce et Decorum Est,’ my history teacher said something that has stuck with me ever since. With what was likely little recognition of the profound impact his next few words would have, he noted that while prose may be the language of conveying meaning, poetry is the language of emotion. Typical speech is vital as the means through which humans communicate matters of rational significance; however, poetry is arguably even more vital as the means through which humans communicate grief, joy, rage, and all of the other things that cannot be truly understood through prose. My writing journey began with a creative writing class I took in my sophomore year, and was recently enriched by the Yale Young Writers Program I attended this summer. All in all, poetry is an outlet for me, and I have dedicated myself to it by writing in nearly any free time I get.”