Usted buscó: dig (Inglés - Tagalo)

dig
sumahukay

dig deep
humukay nang malalim

did you dig
pwede po bang mahukay ito?

dig the ground
maghukay ng dalawang hukay

we need to dig deeper
dig deeper the word of god

if you want to dig you save food
because of the selling product in a high price in school canteen

take land dig by the ground and take
mag by hukay ng lupa at kumuha

we dig that under the mud by the sea
kapag nakapunta kana dito tuturuan kita kung paano kumuha nyan at paank kumuha ng suso

we have to dig deeper in the factors affecting sales
maghukay ng malalim sa iyo

don't dig up in doubt what you planted to grow in faith
lumago sa pananampalataya

i'm only a man in a silly red sheet dig for kryptonite on this one way street
ako lamang ng isang tao sa isang silly red sheet dig para kryptonite sa isang ito way na kalye

everywhere, machines dig, bore and rip from the earth the pieces of stars buried in its depths since its creation...
kahit saan mga makina'y humuhukay, bumubutas at pumupunit sa mundo ang mga piraso ng mga bituin na nakabaon sa ilalim mula sa simula...

all over the planet, the poorest scrabble to survive on scraps, while we continue to dig for resources that we can no longer live without.
sa planeta, ang mahihirap ay nagkukumahog na makaligtas, habang tayo'y patuloy sa paghuhukay sa likas yaman na halos di tayo makatagal ng wala ito.

a low art [excerpt from the penelopiad] by margaret atwood (canada) now that i’m dead i know everything. this is what i wished would happen, but like so many of my wishes it failed to come true. i know only a few factoids that i didn’t know before. death is much too high a price to pay for the satisfaction of curiosity, needless to say. since being dead — since achieving this state of bonelessness, liplessness, breastlessness —i’ve learned some things i would rather not know, as one does when listening at windows or opening ot her people’s letters. you think you’d like to read minds? think again. down here everyone arrives with a sack, like the sacks used to keep the winds in, but each of these sacks is full of words —words you’ve spoken, words you’ve heard, wo rds that have been said about you. some sacks are very small, others large; my own is of a reasonable size, though a lot of the words in it concern my eminent husband. what a fool he made of me, some say. it was a specialty of his: making fools. he got away with everything, which was another of his specialties: getting away. he was always so plausible. many people have believed that his version of events was the true one, give or take a few murders, a few beautiful seductresses, a few one-eyed monsters. even i believed him, from time to time. i knew he was tricky and a liar, i just didn’t think he would play his tricks and try out his lies on me. hadn’t i been faithful? hadn’t i waited, and waited, and waited, despite the temptation — almost the compulsion — to do otherwise? and what did i amount to, once the official version gained ground? an edifying legend. a stick used to beat other women with. why couldn’t they be as considerate, as trustworthy, as all-suffering as i had been? that was the line they took, the singers, the yarn- spinners. don’t follow my example, i want to scream in your ears — yes, yours! but when i try to scream, i sound like an owl. of course i had inklings, about his slipperiness, his wiliness, his foxiness, his — how can i put this? — his unscrupulousness, but i turned a blind eye. i kept my mouth shut; or if i opened it, i sang his praises. i didn’t contradict, i didn’t ask awkward questions, i didn’t dig deep. i wanted happy endings in those days, and happy endings are best achieved by keeping the right doors locked and going to sleep during the rampages. but after the main events were over and things had become less legendary, i realised how many people were laughing at me behind my back — how they were jeering, making jokes about me, jokes both clean and dirty; how they were turning me into a story, or into several stories, though not the kind of stories i’d prefer to hear about m yself. what can a woman do when scandalous gossip travels the world? if she defends herself she sounds guilty. so i waited some more. now that all the others have run out of air, it’s my t urn to do a little storymaking. i owe it to myself. i’ve had to work myself up to it: it’s a low art, tale-telling. old women go in for it, strolling beggars, blind singers, maidservants, children — folks with time on their hands. once, people would have laughed if i’d tried to play th e minstrel —there’s nothing more preposterous than an aristocrat fumbling around with the arts — but who cares about public opinion now? the opinion of the people down here: the opinions of shadows, of echoes. so i’ll spin a thread of my own.
isang mababang kwento ng sining sa tagalog