In Concretion by Unprocessed

How weak do we fly,
So every breeze blows us away.
How far is the ocean,
that pours in us,
so lonesome.

From elements of this world,
our heartbeat arises.
In every second,
the flow streams
and runs dry.

The seed becomes a tree,
that blooms in a thousand colours.
And enormous forces,
shake the stem,
until it’s threatened to fall.

There grows a shadow,
that covers us with cold.
A hot stream
of tears flows down
and allows us to ripen.

Will there be a day of insight?
Are we going to see?
Our view keeps numb,
our heart keeps dumb,
this path is dead.

A quiet wind sings,
he is near, when he’s gone.
Where does he lead us?
If we follow him,
we will stay with us.

And all at once there’s grief,
the skies burn.
We will sink,
so helpless
and still.

Crutch is nowhere,
we are faraway.
We grasp at the trunk
and feel the haulm,
that sways in the gale.

But there is shelter and warmth,
we sink into the night.
And shine even clearer,
at daytime, in hours
of remembrance.

A gentle mist lies
over every field.
And if we wipe it away,
a rain blows there,
a rain of shame.

We like to disappear thereunder,
to rest in ourselves.
The mellow view so cheerful,
the drab world colourful,
sans doing anything.

And the eve arrives,
putting his arm around us.
Thoughts recede so glistening,
silently, the wind will die,
in which the bleak branches sway,
in which we still live today.

What’s in a name? Unprocessed as a word defines something raw and untouched. And yet, the connotation is somewhat arbitrary when combined with the band’s innate ability to constantly develop and experiment with a sound that although is entirely derivative of raw and natural skill, is futuristic, progressive and multifaceted in nature.

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