Results for a translated version of the gene rx translation from English to Tagalog

tagalog version of the wooden bowl
bersyon ng tagalog ng kahoy na mangkok

maranao version of the first monkey
maranao bersyon ng unang unggoy

tagalog version of story of the,mats
tagalog version ng kwento ng, mat

tagalog version of the wooden bowl story
tagalog na bersyon ng kuwento ng kahoy na mangkok

maranao and iloko version of the first monkeys
maranao at iloko na bersyon ng mga unang unggoy

what is the tagalog version of the day you said goodnight
ano ang bersiyong tagalog ng araw na sinabi mong goodnight

what is the english version of the boss's schedule
ano sa english ang puno na ang schedule ni boss

the human version of the enzyme is often referred to as hace2.
madalas na tinutukoy bilang hace2 ang pantaong bersyon ng enzyme.

there is no script in the new version of the package - giving up
walang skripto sa bagong bersyon ng pakete - sumusuko na

failed to open the list file '%sinfo/%s'. if you cannot restore this file then make it empty and immediately re-install the same version of the package!
sawi sa pagbukas ng tipunang listahan '%sinfo/%s'. kung hindi niyo maibalik ang tipunang ito, gawin itong walang laman at muling instolahin kaagad ang parehong bersyon ng pakete!

one of three genetic tests in older versions of the test kits caused inconclusive results due to faulty reagents, and a bottleneck of testing at the cdc in atlanta; this resulted in an average of fewer than 100 samples a day being successfully processed throughout the whole of february 2020.
isa sa tatlong mga genetiko na pagsusuri sa mga mas lumang bersyon ng mga kit ng pagsusuri ay nagdulot ng hindi kanais-nais na mga resulta dahil sa mga maling pantauli, at isang masagabal na pagsusuri sa cdc sa atlanta; nagbunga ito sa katampatang mas kaunti sa 100 na mga sampol sa bawat araw na matagumpay na naproseso sa kabuuan ng pebrero 2020.

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