Você procurou por: what did i do to deserve this kind of treatment (Inglês - Tagalo)

what did i do to deserve this kind of love and kindness
ano ang nagawa ko para maging marapat sa iyong pagmamahal at kabaitan

what did i do to deserve you
umagang umaga napapakilig mo ako

i deserve this kind of pain
hindi ako karapat - dapat sa ganitong uri ng paghihirap

do i deserve this kind of man
do i deserve this man

this kind of treatment
deserve ko ba ang ganitong uri ng paggamot

what did i do to you
ano bang ginawa ko sayo

what did i do
what would i do

ask yourself do you deserve this kind of set up with me
tanungin mo karapat-dapat ka sa ganitong uri ng pag-set up sa akin

what did i do today
mga ginawa ko ngayong araw

for what did i do wrong
ano ang nagawa kong mali

why aren't you talking to me? what did i do?
kasi mahina single dito

what did i do to lose such things i think i just paid more attention to what i was doing like playing online games and social media
ang ginawa ko para mawala ang mga ganung bagay na iniisip ko mas binigyan pansin ko nalang ung mga pinagkakaabalahan ko katulad ng pag lalaro ng online games at social media

it's like you're a mother. but what did i do i fought you i was ashamed of myself ma'am. i did what i shouldn't. sayu
para na kitang nanay. pero anong ginawa ko lumaban ako sayu nahiya ako sa sarili ko ma'am. nagawa ko ang hindi dapat. ko ko

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