In the flawed, human condition, hurtful words, once planted like a seed, will continue to grow in the heart of the wounded, and death will not end the pain; death never heals, that healing is the province of love, and such love can be seen in the birth of an angel, a rose of evening! I love the way the poet has contrasted such joy in birth, against the first denial that builds like a lie upon a lie. To say “Let me, not/bury them, encroaching/upon the meaning—/for a rusted/consequence, a truth/ was left on the road, seems to imply a fervent commitment to keep the words out in the open, like truth abandoned on the roadside, a glaring sight that cannot be hidden. These are my humble impressions, Satish, and if I err, it is to my lack of understanding, rather than my lack of devotion to reading and enjoying the poem. Let me also take a moment to express my appreciation of your—gift— “Footprints in the Dark”. The binding and jacket is as beautiful as the poems are impressive!
Peace! My good friend. —oxygon
A minor correction is in order—The binding and Jacket “are” as beautiful . . . In this instance, I erred indeed. 
- oxygon
- oxygonA good attempt of composing a poem to show how some one’s conscience gets rusted .Poets are individuals. I respect their attitude. Subrata Ray .Uluberia .West Bengal .India .-
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