Hai cercato la traduzione di a blind fool tought me how to bea... da Inglese a Tagalog

how to beat procrastination
kung paano mapagtagumpayan ang pagpapaliban

teach me how to dance
pwede mo ba akong turuan kung paano sumayaw

teach me how to make this cake
teach how to make a cake

boy though me how to play a game
pwede mo ba akong turuan maglaro

lola taught me how to write properly
itinuro sa akin ni lola kung paano sumulat nang proerly

you teach me how to be love and loved
tinuruan mo ako kung paano ka mah

he taught me how to love but not how to stop
tinuruan niya ako kung paano magmahal ngunit huwag tumigil

can you please teach me how to do this?
nagagalak ako na makilala ka

could you tell me how to get to osaka station?
maaari mo bang sabihin sa akin kung paano pumunta sa istasyon ng osaka?

i may not be you teacher but you teach me how to love you
turuan mo akong mahalin ka

5. you taught me how to love not only you, but also myself.
sana mahalin mo pa rin ako sa p

tell me or what's wrong with you because you say it's okay to understand because i'm always busy so tell me how to open up to me
sabihin mo naman sakin o kung ano yung problema kagi mo naman lasi sinasabi na okay lang na naiintindihan mo dahil ba sa busy ako lagi kaya ka ganyan sabihin mo naman ako mag open ka naman sakin

hi hello ambhal i'm out of my job and i'm here in the club house now i have a please teach me how to move like if you moved on so that i can also love my wife as you love your wife why do i always choose you despite everything even if you sent me a subra subra i still prefer you why
hi hello ambhal out na ako sa trabaho ko at nandito ako sa club house ngayon meron ako isang pakiusap sayo turuan mo naman ako mag move gaya ng kung pano ka nag move on para mahalin ko rin naman yung asawa ko gaya ng pagmamahal mo sa asawa mo bakit lagi kitang pinipili sa kabila ng lahat kahit sinaktang mo ako ng subra subra mas pinipili parin kita bakit

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