Results for if my father would only spend tim... translation from English to Tagalog

if my father would only
may gagawin ako para makalimutan ang oras na mahina ako

if my father were still alive
kung buhay ka pa sana tatay

if my father had not been killed in the war, he would be over sixty years old now.
kung hindi namatay ang tatay ko sa digmaan, lagpas sisenta na sana siya ngayon.

my father would often say how his swords would create a new age.
palaging sinasabi ng aking ama pano makakagawa ng bagong panahon ang kaniyang espada

don't waste your time on me
i just regret the time i have wasted with the wrong person

i don't have children before, if i'm married, i can only spend time with them on vacation when the children don't go to school
wala mga anak ko nasa dati kung asawa nakakasama ko lng sila pag bakasyon pag wla pasok sa school ang mga bata

don't waste your time on me because i won't get anything
wag mo akong dektahan kong sino ang e chat ko

december 25, 2019 we celebrated christmas at our house my dad baked a barbiquestick so he baked it because my brother and i liked the barbique stick my christmas was so much fun that i could just spend time with my family at christmas.ang my father age is 63 and my mother age is 57 and my brother age is 13
december 25 2019 nag celebrate kami ng pasko sa aming bahay ang aking ama ay nag ihaw ng barbiquestick kaya sya nag ihaw nito dahil favorite ko at ng aking kapatid ang barbique stick ang aking pasko ay napakasaya makapiling ko lang ang akin pamilya sa pasko.

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