The warning lands on a pot so crusted with rust that the corrosion has eaten into the metal and will not scrub off. The rust pictures a heart left uncleaned, where cruelty and old wrongs harden layer on layer until they become the surface itself. The cure is the harder truth buried in the threat: scour early, before the stain sets, through honest self-examination and turning back.
A neglected blade is not lost while there is still steel beneath the corrosion. Even the stern demand that the pot be emptied and cleaned is mercy wearing a hard face, the metal being made ready to shine.