Cry of peace.

Born from elemental percussion and fractured voices, it resonates like the earth itself drumming its plea.
Neither hymn nor song, it is a wound turned outward, a fragile bridge where pain becomes rhythm, and rhythm holds the possibility of peace.
In this neo-composition, Postune shapes absence as much as sound, creating a space for the unheard to exist.

Unremembred.

in the UNSONGS. album, Unremembred is a fragile monument to fading memory a melody built on what slips away.

Woven in trembling pulses and blurred harmonies, it evokes the soft erosion of names, faces, and days once vivid. The rhythm stumbles like a mind searching for its own path, while fragments of sound surface and vanish like fleeting thoughts.

Sometimes, voices emerge, cracked, tender, not to declare, but to ask: What was I to you?

It’s not a song you remember it’s a song that remembers you, briefly, before letting go again.

Undanced

is a ritual in sound — a dance that never happened, yet still lingers.

Built on a wavering ternary rhythm, it explores absence, memory, and the gestures we never got to make. Muffled beats echo like distant steps, while silences stretch like forgotten rooms.

At moments, powerful choral voices rise — but only as whispers, as if the dead were singing loudly from another realm.

A haunting, restrained journey into what remains unsaid — and undanced.

Uninvited

is the sound of a door left open — not wide, but just enough for the cold to enter.

Set against a sparse, syncopated rhythm, the track captures the tension of presence without welcome, of footsteps in rooms that never asked for them. Dissonant textures hum beneath, like thoughts you try to silence but that hum louder in the dark.

A voice speaks — not to be heard, but because it has nowhere else to go.

This is not a confrontation. It’s an echo of intrusion — quiet, uneasy, and still echoing long after the sound has passed.

Unnamed

is a lullaby stitched from every corner of the earth — a song where the only word is mother, spoken in a thousand tongues.

Its rhythm pulses like a universal heartbeat, ancient and newborn at once. Voices rise and fall, sometimes alone, sometimes in chorus — Swahili, Inuktitut, Quechua, Tamil — whispering the same word with different breaths.

No narrative, no language to dominate — just the sacred syllable that survives war, silence, exile.

A song for the first name we ever learn — and perhaps the only one we never forget. Even when all else is unnamed.

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