Dezső Kosztolányi

He lies who strove for high intent,
his own benumbed, unspeaking monument.
No tears can wake him now, no words, nor herbs or fungus,
who once upon a time dwelt here among us.

Better to live. And yet, beyond, the trees
already wave their golden arms to me.

This is what man is like, a singular sample.
No copy existed before, nor does one at present.
As on a living branch each leaf is different
so time itself will breed no simulacrum.