Adinnādāna: Taking what is not given
Theft covers the thumb on the balance as surely as the hand in the purse. A measure made small, the sweepings of the wheat sold as grain, a poor man priced at a pair of sandals: this is what "for this" reaches back to. Waiting out the new moon and the sabbath so the selling can resume keeps the ledger tidy and changes nothing underneath it.
Kamma: Action and its fruit
Deeds ripen in their own season. Cheating in the market and ground heaving beneath that market are one motion stretched across years, which is why a single "for this" can hold both ends of it. Nobody is dispatched to punish the grain sellers; what they set moving simply arrives, the way a debt comes due.
Anicca: Impermanence
Whatever rises has already begun its falling. The Nile swells until it covers the fields, then draws back into its bed, and the land itself is doing the same thing on a longer count. A fortune built on short measures rides that same water, high while the flood holds, low when it drains away.
Soka: Grief
Sorrow is the ache that follows loss. Everyone who dwells in the land mourns, the honest alongside the crooked, since no household keeps its footing when the floor gives way beneath it. The gain from the false scales stayed in a few hands; the mourning is spread across every person standing on that soil.
Saṃvega: The shock that wakes
Some jolts turn a person around. Ground shifting under the feet settles every argument about whether life is secure, and someone who has felt it stops trusting the balance he leaned on yesterday. A shaking like that can be spent entirely on panic, or it can be spent on changing how one buys and sells before the water sinks back down.