Behold this beautiful body, a mass of sores, a heaped-up (lump), diseased, much thought of, in which nothing lasts, nothing persists.
Thoroughly worn out is this body, a nest of diseases, perishable. This putrid mass breaks up. Truly, life ends in death.
Like gourds cast away in autumn are these dove-hued bones. What pleasure is there in looking at them?
Of bones is (this) city made, plastered with flesh and blood. Herein are stored decay, death, conceit, and detraction.
Dhammapada, translated by Ven. Nàrada