Kamma-vipāka: The ripening of deeds
Deeds come to fruit in their own season. These mountains did not burn by accident; a long habit of grasping and violence came due at last, and the smoke lifting off the pastures is the harvest of seed that went into the ground years before anyone thought about it. Land is a slow crop, which is why the ones who did the sowing rarely recognize the field when it finally comes up black.
Anicca: Impermanence
Formed things pass. Grass that fed whole herds is ash now, roads that carried traffic stand empty, and the sky over the wilderness has emptied of wings, though every bit of it looked settled and permanent back when the cattle were still lowing. The mountains will outlast the pastures they hold, and even they are only slower; every green hillside is on loan.
Soka-parideva: Sorrow and its voice
Sorrow aches inward, lamentation carries it out loud. Weeping and wailing arrive here as one motion, grief going up over the hills like keening at a graveside, addressed to no one who can answer. Naming the loss aloud restores no pasture and the mourner knows it, yet the cry is the honest shape of a heart that loved what it is watching disappear.
Karuṇā: Compassion
Compassion is the heart trembling at another's pain. This lament reaches past the city walls to cattle that no longer call and birds that have already gone, creatures that kept no covenant and broke none but lost their grazing all the same. Grief wide enough to hold a silent herd has stopped asking who deserved what, and mourning the beasts is the same motion of heart that mourns a neighbor.
Saṁvega: The shock that wakes a person
Saṁvega is the jolt of seeing plainly how things stand. A road nobody walks and a hillside with no animal sound on it will do to a person what no argument can, and standing in that silence the prophet is shaken awake to what the people would not look at. Ruin held steadily in view becomes a teacher, and the same shock that starts the weeping is what starts the turning.