検索ワード: do you think my best friend is not the right guy (英語 - タガログ語)

do you think i am the right woman for you
sa tingin mo ako ang tamang abae para sayo

this is not the right time
hindi pa ito ang tamang oras

if you think im not the right one for you you deserve someone better
you deserve someone who can treat you better

what do you think is the purpose of the rights of childten
karapatan ng mga bata

hi!i thought you and my best friends is just a friend.
akala ko ikaw ay isang mabuting kaibigan lamang

the one person in the world that will give you equal love and devotion like your parent and lovers is your best friends my best friends leslie. we both study in the same school.we work together if we have assignment. she is my favorite best friend she is kind,expectable always.we live in the same village. although we quarreled once in a while we were immediately at ease. whenever i need help or support my best friend is always there for me. we have lived moments together and have created memorie
ang isang tao sa mundo na magbibigay sa iyo ng pantay na pagmamahal at debosyon tulad ng iyong magulang at mga mahilig sa iyong pinakamahusay na mga kaibigan ang aking pinakamatalik na kaibigan leslie. pareho kaming nag-aaral sa iisang paaralan.kasama kaming nagtatrabaho kung mayroon kaming atas. siya ang aking paboritong matalik na kaibigan na mabait siya, inaasahan palagi.we live in the same village. kahit na nag-away kami nang isang beses sa isang habang kami ay agad na kumalma. sa tuwing nangangailangan ako ng tulong o suportahan ang aking matalik na kaibigan ay palaging para sa akin. nabuhay kami ng mga sandali nang magkasama at lumikha kami ng alaala

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