Lyrics is infinite this abandoned wealth, poem by Edgard Bayley commented by Zulma Zubillaga this hand is neither hand nor the skin of your happiness at the bottom of the streets always find another heaven after heaven another grass there are always different beaches never ends is infinite this wealth never abandoned assume that dawn foam has extinguished after the face another face behind the running of your lover there is another March after singing a new roce is prolonged and the dawns hidden alphabet unprecedented remote islands always will happen sometimes your dream believes have said everything but another dream rises and is not the same then you return to your hands at the heart of all of any non are the same no are the same others know the word you ignore the others know forget the unnecessary facts and raised his thumb have forgotten you’ve come back no matter your failure will never end is infinite this abandoned wealth and every gesture every form of love or reproach among the latest laughter pain and early find sour wind and overdue stars one Birch mask presages the vision you’ve wanted to see at the bottom of the day have got you sometimes River arrives gods rises murmurs distant to the clarity of the Sun glow threats cold not expect nothing but the path of the Sun and the penalty will never end is infinite this abandoned wealth Edgard Bayley (1919-1990), Arturo was founded in 1944 magazine, decisive publication on the emergence of motion poetry Buenos Aires Raul Gustavo Aguirre in the 1950-, driving and the concrete art invention, that generated a substantial change in the vernacular plastic. Although he adhered to the invencionismo, which represents a temporary term indicating awareness, by the poet, of the invention as a specific structure of the work of art, three decades after the manifesto that uphold this movement, according to Juan Jacobo Bajarlia Bayley told the same purpose: not have lost the plane never densely human, both geographical and spiritual proximity where will It elaborates and concrete poetry. . .