Você procurou por: here some things inspire me (Inglês - Tagalo)

you inspire me
you inspire me to become a better person

i sew some things
sewing the items

some things never change
pinaparamdam mo sa akin na mahal na mahal kita

some things are better left unsaid
ang ilang mga bagay ay mas mahusay na natitira hindi alam

some things are never meant to be
ang ilang mga bagay ay hindi sinadya upang mangyari

inspire me to be greatest version of my self
bigyan mo ako ng inspirasyon

there are some things that we must keep doing.
may ilang bagay na dapat naming patuloy na gawin.

there are some things learn best in calm and in storm
may mga bagay na pinakamahusay na natututunan sa kalmado at sa bagyo

there are some things that are frustrating but they cannot be restored
may nakakamiss ba sakin

i'm immature in some things and maturde enough in some ways it depends
i 'm immature in some things and maturde enough in some ways it depends.

we should, in this worldview, adopt the fact that some things are not within our control.
dapat nating, sa pananaw na ito sa mundo, magpatibay ng katotohanan na ang ilang mga bagay ay wala sa ating kontrol.

show me some thing
showing something that will come to be or a destiny beyond your control

waiting for some thing
waiting for some thing

writee some thing lovely
sumulat ng ilang bagay na kaibig-ibig

it inspires me to create a good content
napakahalaga nito sa akin

some thing what i want to i feel is that i am special
some thing what i want to feel is that i am special.

some things from his house. while in the white rabbit's home, she drinks another potion and becomes too huge to get out through the door. she eventually finds a little cake which, when eaten, makes her small again.
ilang mga bagay mula sa kanyang bahay. habang nasa bahay ng white rabbit, umiinom siya ng isa pang potion at nagiging napakalaki upang makalabas sa pintuan. sa kalaunan ay nakahanap siya ng isang maliit na cake na, kapag kinakain, ginagawang muli ang kanyang maliit.

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