[Verse 1 — the riddle posed] Let me give you a riddle, the kind that doesn't close. Not steel this time. Not flesh, not blood, not those. The riddle is enough — and here's the trick of it: everyone who's asked me has already answered it. [Verse 2 — the first answer] Some say enough's a wall. Build it high, build it thick. Say no once, say no always, never bend, never flick a single field back open once you've called it done. That's one answer. It isn't wrong. It just isn't the only one. [Verse 3 — the second, contradicting answer] Some say there's no such thing — that growth never stops, that every gate you close, another quietly pops somewhere you didn't check, some seam you missed — that's true too. That's the whole riddle, and here's the twist: [Chorus — refusing both answers] Enough was never the wall or the growing thing. Enough is the hand that chooses, every single day, to swing the gate shut one more time, knowing it'll open again — not because the riddle's solved. Because you showed up. Again. [Verse 4 — building, full weight] I've heard both answers. I've given both myself. Neither one sits finished on a shelf. The wall breaks. The growing never really stops. Enough was never an answer. It's a door you close, then reopen. [Chorus — repeat, full production] Enough was never the wall or the growing thing. Enough is the hand that chooses, every single day, to swing the gate shut one more time, knowing it'll open again — not because the riddle's solved. Because you showed up. Again. [Bridge — the gravity line] That's the secret nobody carves in steel or stone: the riddle doesn't end. You just stop asking it alone. [Outro — spoken, full weight, then silence] That's the riddle of enough. Nobody wins it. You just keep answering.
