您搜索了: people were already very wicked (英语 - 他加禄语)

people very wicked
wicked

were already sent
naibigay na

people were shocked
dinagsa ang first fan meeting ng thai boys love series na 6moons

the people were upset
at biglang nagkagulo ang mga tao dahil sa isang putok

all rebels were already dead.
namatay na ang lahat ng mga rebelde.

i thought you were already gone
akala ko wala na kayo

people were filled with fright.
natakot ang tao.

only a few people (were left)
kaunti na lang ang tao

people were not happy with the increase
dahil dagdag nanaman ito sa kanilang gastusin

my people, were taken captive and plunged into despair
bayan ko, binihag ka nasadlak sa dusa

more than 8,000 people were infected, about ten percent of whom died.
mahigit sa 8,000 katao ang nahawaan, halos sampung porsyento sa kanila ang namatay.

in melbourne, australia about a thousand people were estimated to have attended:
sa bayan ng melbourne, australia naman, tinatayang may isang libong katao ang dumalo sa pagkilos:

if there was anything ella was about during that time, she was sincerely bothered by the fact that people were hungry and homeless and without clothes and the government doesn’t seem to care.
kung mayroon mang ibig sabihin si ella noong mga panahong iyon, ito ay ang kanyang tapat na pagkaligalig sa katotohanang maraming tao ang nagugutom at walang matirhan at walang masuot na damit at tila walang pakialam ang pamahalaan.

these early civilizations were when people were guilty of penalties such as branding, flogging, mutilation and execution were just as common to them and then there used to be a few heavy penalties because they were probably afraid of penalties so their sins were only a minor offense.
nong mga early civilizations kapag nakacommit ang mga tao ng kasalanan pinapatawan sila ng parusa katulad na lang ng branding, flogging, mutilation at execution ay parang common na sa kanila at saka dati ay konti lang talaga yong mga parusang mabibigat dahil siguro takot sila sa mga parusa kaya puro minor offense lang yong mga kasalanan nila.

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