Piya: The Dear One
Piya is whatever the heart holds close as its own. Naming Ephraim a darling child sets the terms for everything after it, because sorrow springs from the dear, and the ache running underneath is the exact measure of how dear he is. A parent still leaves the porch light on for the child who slammed the door. Nothing hurts about a stranger's wandering; this hurts because he was held that close.
Ovāda: Admonition
Ovāda is correction given for another's welfare. Speaking against Ephraim, over and over, is the form the care takes here, the way a teacher circles the same error on page after page because the student is worth the ink. The repetition gives it away: nobody presses that hard on someone already written off. Rebuke and remembrance are running on the same line, one breath apart.
Khanti: Patient Endurance
Khanti is the strength to bear provocation without turning away. "As often as" covers generations of walking off, and through all of it the speaker is still standing in the same place, still talking. Earth takes whatever gets thrown on it and stays earth, and that steadiness is what keeps the door unlocked for a son who has done nothing to earn it.
Sati: Remembering
Sati is the mind keeping something in view, and its plainest sense is memory. "I still earnestly remember him" works exactly that way: after every reproach the son surfaces again and stays there, held rather than merely recalled. Anger is loud and short and forgets what it was about; this holding outlasts it, the way you can still picture a face you have not seen for twenty years.
Anukampā: Tender Concern
Anukampā is being moved on someone's behalf, and it carries through into action. The yearning here sits low in the body, the lurch in the stomach when someone you love is in trouble somewhere you cannot reach. It refuses to stop at the feeling and travels the whole distance to "I will surely have mercy," which is where tenderness of this kind always ends up, out of the chest and into the hands.