Imagine walking into a small room, not vast but intimate, yet packed with thousands of souls. No, this isn’t a digital gathering of minds from the internet. I’m speaking of a physical room, where the essence of countless individuals is somehow cradled between four humble walls. Does this small room have the capacity to hold thousands? You may wonder how but let me be clear.

I’m speaking of a library. To me, a library is a room for ideas, for creativity, for innovations, for dreams, for the endless meeting of minds. It is where I encounter people across centuries and cultures, gathered not in flesh but in spirit, between the pages of books.

Here, I meet the masters of thought, the poets of love, the philosophers of existence. In this sacred space, I can choose to engage with them on my terms, reading passively, or actively questioning and contemplating their wisdom.

Today, my heart longed to meet Gibran Khalil, a poet and philosopher whose words transcend time. Business topics and daily routines faded as I entered the world he created, a world where thoughts soar like birds and words touch the soul. I revisited his writings, not for the first time, but as someone who had walked through these doors before. And like every time before, I was drawn in, eager to stay, to explore, to return again and again.

The first time I read Gibran was back in 1999 at the British Council library in Madinat Al Qaboos. At the time, I was studying English, and his works, though profound, were still new to me. Five years later, in 2004, I revisited his writings in Arabic, and now, two decades later in 2024, I find myself in the Middle East College Library, holding once again his masterpiece, *The Prophet*. The book feels familiar in my hands, yet his words remain as fresh and stirring as the first time I read them.

I opened *The Prophet* and began reading, immediately drawn to the passage where Gibran says, “Your children are not your children. They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.” This idea, so bold and liberating, tugged at my mind, urging me to reflect.

Could I truly agree or disagree with it? Gibran’s point is profound. When we pause and consider today’s fast, paced world, with its ever-shifting trends and attitudes, his words become even more relevant.

He reminds us that though children are born through their parents, they do not belong to them. Children are not possessions to mold into versions of ourselves; they are individuals, destined to find their own paths and purposes. Parents are merely channels through which life flows, but the journey belongs to the child.

This notion urges us to give them the freedom to grow, to learn, and to fulfill their own potential, rather than burdening them with our expectations.

But Gibran didn’t stop at spiritual musings. He was a poet who touched the material world with equal grace. In one of his famous verses, he wrote, “Work is love made visible.” These simple words carry a profound message. Gibran believed that work is not just an obligation or a means of survival, it is a manifestation of love. When we invest our heart and soul into what we do, it becomes an expression of our love for life, for others, for the world.

Work, then, is no longer a mundane task but a labor of love, something we give willingly, passionately, and with purpose.

He teaches us to approach every task with dedication, to see the beauty in the act of creation itself. Whether it is the work of our hands or the work of our minds, when we pour ourselves into it, we make love visible to the world. It transforms the ordinary into something sacred, something meaningful.

In reading Gibran again today, I feel as if I’ve met an old friend who still surprises me with his wisdom. His words are timeless, his ideas eternal, and I leave the library with a sense of deep reflection, as if the thousands of souls in that room are still speaking, still guiding me on my journey.

About the author: The writer is a lecturer at Middle East College, Muscat