Saṅkhāra: Things put together
Silver poured into the shape of a calf is held in place by hands, heat, and a mold, and whatever hands assemble, time takes apart. Morning mist works the same way: water gathered by a cold night, undone within the hour by the sun that rises over it. Smoke leaving a chimney is wood in the middle of coming apart, drifting up through the hole and thinning out into air until there is nothing to point at.
Anicca: Impermanence
Mist, dew, chaff, smoke: four ways of saying one thing, and every one of them is gone before noon. Dew on the grass at dawn looks like a field of small lamps, and the same field is dry ground by the time the sun clears the hills. Ephraim, a kingdom with cities and storehouses and silver, gets set in the same list as the weather, measured on the weather's timescale rather than a nation's.
Asāra: Without heartwood
Chaff on the threshing floor is the husk that is left once the grain has been beaten out of it, and it goes wherever the wind sends it because there is nothing inside to weigh it down. Molten calves were weighed, admired, and set at the middle of a nation's life, yet the whirlwind lifts them as easily as husk. The grain stays on the floor; only the empty covering travels.
Kamma: Deeds and their fruit
"Therefore" is the hinge the whole line turns on. Worship poured into silver comes back as a life with no more weight than smoke, the way a field sown with thin seed gives back a thin harvest. Nothing is added from outside at the end; the mist was already there in the pouring of the calf, waiting for its season.
Maraṇassati: Keeping death in mind
A drop of dew on a blade of grass at first light is the oldest measure anyone has for how long a person lasts. Taking up mist, dew, chaff, and smoke on purpose, in a quiet hour, does the work before circumstances do it roughly. Ephraim heard these four as a sentence handed down on a kingdom; picked up willingly, they read as a plain description of any life, including the one breathing right now.