Ozymandias cannot die.

When Shelley wrote about Ozymandias, he either lamented or celebrated the ephemeral quality of fame, pride, memories and life ...

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
Half sunk, a shatter'd visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamp'd on these lifeless things,
The hand that mock'd them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains: round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

I love this poem... But,  Shelley meboy, you were bludy wrong !

Some ruins speak of a glorious past. 
Of a time when art was its own means and its own end.
The hands that created these marvels may long have gone, but their soul remains in these stones.

And this soul, gives life to these stones, and brings alive their grandeur of yesteryear ,  even as they lie in shambles today.

Ozymandias may have died unsung elsewhere, but he cannot die....

.....at Bhubaneswar, the city of temples.