Вы искали: this girl is has turned into a woman (Английский - Тагальский)

this girl has turned into a woman
nauwi sa pag - ibig

turned into a car collision
naka bangga ng aso

this girl is amazing
amazing lady

but he took it off and turned into a slave
bagkus hinubad nya ito at nag anyong alipin

the happy day would have turned into a sad one
hindi nman talaga ako ang espesyal ,kundi ang akibg dala dala

i had to kill my sister when she turned into a zombie!
tinapos ko rin ang aking kapatid nang maging zombie siya.

just asking you, you still love me even if has turned into grayy hair
nagtatanong lang sa iyo, ako pa kaya'y ibigin mo kahit maputi na ang buhok ko

just asking you, would you still be loving me even if has turned into grayy hair
nagtatanong lang sa iyo, ako pa kaya'y ibigin mo kahit maputi na ang buhok ko

just asking you, would you still be loving me even if my hair has turned into gray.
nagtatanong lang sa iyo, ako pa kaya'y ibigin mo kahit maputi na ang buhok ko

medusa was a gorgon, a creature with snakes on the head instead of hairs this is a greek and roman myth. all those looking into his eyes become stone. she was once a beautiful girl who bragged her hair, but she was made a monster by the goddess athens. this is because medusa compares herself to athens. his head was turned into a serpent by the power of athens. medusa was
si medusa ay isang gorgon, isang nilalang na may mga ahas sa ulo sa halip na mga buhok ito ay isang mitolohiyang griyego at romano. nagiging bato ang lahat ng mga tumitingin sa kanyang mga mata. dati siyang isang magandang dalaga na ipinagmamalaki ang kanyang mga buhok, ngunit ginawa siyang isang halimaw ng diyosang si atena. ito ay dahil sa paghahambing ni medusa sa kanyang sarili kay atena. naging mga ahas ang kanyang mga siningsing sa ulo dahil sa angking kapangyarihan ni atena. si medusa ay

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