Results for shadow of dead translation from English to Tagalog

shadow of the day
shadow of the day

book of dead
aklat ng mga patay

in the shadow of the up
tirik na araw

ashes of dead
pinalipat ko mg libingan ang abo ng ate ko

in the shadow of the upright sun
at ang araw ay tirik na trik na animoy masusunog ang balat mo

through the velvet shadow of darkness
sabihin mo lang na mahal mo ako

the shadow of the stick is visible.
ang anino ng patpat ay lantad.

and no shadow of deceitfulness cross their mind
at walang anino ng pandaraya ang sumagi sa kanilang isipan

the ballad of dead ladies
tell me

what do you call the ash of dead
ano ang tawag sa lalagyan ng abo ng patay

into the dreary desert sand of dead habit
kung saan ang isip ay walang takot

how he returns back to the world of living and his adventures in the land of dead
ang mundo ng pamumuhay at ang kanyang mga pakikipagsapalaran sa lupain ng mga patay

whatever reason you say you cannot change the fact that you are an impostor who is only pretending and because of that you are living in the shadow of other people because you have no ability to face your own personality and you will remain hiding in the dark side of your shadow
kahit anong dahilan pa ang sabihin mo hindi mo mababago ang katotohanan na ikaw ay isang impostor na nagpapanggap lamang at dahil dyan ikaw ay nabubuhay sa anino ng ibang tao dahil wala kang kakayahan na harapin ang sarili mong pagkatao at mananatili kang nagtatago sa madilim na bahagi ng iyong ginawang anino

fucos your attention on the shadow of the earth in figure 10. the shadow is wider than the of the moon. it also nas an umbra and a penumbra. which part of the earth's shadow falls on the moon? is the moon always found within the umbra
fucos ang iyong pansin sa anino ng earth sa figure 10. ang anino ay mas malawak kaysa sa buwan. ito rin nas isang umbra at isang penumbra. aling bahagi ng anino ng lupa ang bumagsak sa buwan? ang buwan ba ay laging matatagpuan sa loob ng umbra

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