検索ワード: it was always you whom i trust and love (英語 - タガログ語)

it was always you
ito ay palaging ikaw

the best part of me was always you
ang pinakamagandang bahagi ko ay palaging ikaw

it was as if i was always guilty
parang ako nalang palagi ang may kasalanan

god is faithful to those whp trust and love him
pangako na angkinin

respect is earned from trust and love is earned from respect
tagalog

let the trust and love and above all let the god be the center
enjoy lang. bagong kabanata sa buhay.

because for me the definition of happiness is when you support a family that builds trust and love then the whole family can have a eternal happiness
kasi para sa akin ang definition ng happiness ay kapag sinusuportahan mo

one day my family and i went to church we were so happy to have a family but it was all gone now it was always a fight they mom and dad i don't know why they fight as a child it hurts for me seeing the fight my parents i can't stop crying i wish you well again my family
isang araw pumunta kami ng aking pamilya sa simbahan subrang saya naming mag pamilya piro ngunit ng laho lahat yun ngayun palagi nalang ng away sila mama at papa hindi ko alm kong ano ang dahilan kong bakit sila ng aaway bilang isang anak masakit para saakin ang nakikitang ng aaway ang magulang ko hindi ko ma pigilang umiyak ang wish ko sana mag ka ayus na ulit ang aking pamilya

anastashia out of pity and love for these strange creatures, decided to plant a magical seed that would bare frui. she took great care of this seed making sure it was safe
isang araw, habang siya ay naglalakbay sa mga lupain, siya ay natitisod sa isang grupo ng mga kakaibang naghahanap ng mga nilalang na gawa sa putik at luad. tumingin sila tulad niya, maliban kung sila ay tila malungkot at nalulumbay.

no, they whisper. you own nothing. you were a visitor, time after time climbing the hill, planting the flag, proclaiming, we never belonged to you. you never found us. it was always the other way round.
hindi, bulong nila. wala kang pag - aari. ikaw ay isang bisita, oras pagkatapos ng oras ng pag - akyat sa burol, pagtatanim ng bandila, pagpapahayag, hindi namin kailanman pag - aari mo. hindi mo kami nahanap. it was always the other way round.

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