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一只花蝶扇窗钩，
骚人住笔半凝眸。
逐高逐低不逐世，
甘对烟霞撞白头。
Plum Blossom Quatrain
A lonely butterfly hooks on the latticed pane,
The poet pauses, brush in hand, lost in thought.
Soaring high or low—but never chasing worldly fame,
Content to face the misty ink, though white-haired and worn.
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