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.”