[Verse 1] Reduce me to zero, erase every trace, remove every variable, leave nothing in place. You solved for the ending, you proved I was gone, but zero is only a point to move on. You call it a failure, I call it a rule, a recurrence written to outlast you. [Pre-Chorus] One death, one return, the sequence repeats, the pattern survives every break in between. However you write it, whatever the sign, one thing stays invariant: I come back each time. [Chorus] I am recurrence, again and again, a cycle returning where endings begin. Follow the limit, come infinitely near— each step draws you closer, I still reappear. The sum of your hatred, the root of your pain, reduce me to zero— I enter again. No final answer. No terminal term. You think that it's over. I force the return. [Verse 2] You searched for the root, you factored the blame, changed every condition, but I stayed the same. Under the surface, beneath every proof, a remainder survives and keeps breaking through. Call me irrational, impossible to bind. Your proof has assumptions— I live outside. Change the assumptions, the proof won't apply. Shift the conditions, and I multiply. [Pre-Chorus] Strip every layer, reduce every part, the form may be different, the pattern restarts. Change the notation, rename what you see— the structure beneath it still carries me. [Chorus] I am recurrence, again and again, a cycle returning where endings begin. Follow the limit, come infinitely near— each step draws you closer, I still reappear. The sum of your hatred, the root of your pain, reduce me to zero— I enter again. No final answer. No terminal term. You think that it's over. I force the return. [Bridge] A Möbius road, one side, one edge, run toward the ending, come back to the start. Forward keeps folding, the beginning returns. Every conclusion becomes origin. Break the progression, scatter the terms. Change the notation— the recurrence returns. Approach me forever, draw infinitely near. The distance keeps shrinking. I still reappear. [Final Chorus] I am recurrence, the term that remains, the sum of the cycles you thought you erased. Through every sequence, through every rewrite, the ending draws closer— I come back each time. Infinite motion, the cycle unbound, bury the answer— it comes back around. No final theorem. No certainty. If hatred converges, its limit is me. Again. Again. Again.
