Reading "Ballad" feels like listening to a jazz riff while someone's thoughts spin out of control. The speaker seems caught in a mind that won't settle: memories ("lost beginnings") taunt from the dark, and images pile up without clear logic. A "cold blue note" suggests a mournful tune, and the sun laughing on someone's face hints at a happier time that is now gone.
Repetition drives the poem. The pigeon that "sits all day" and the feet that "walk all day" return like a refrain, giving a sense of tired, endless routine. Then comes the plainest, saddest moment: things are "not as good as it used to be," and "counting don't work no more my love." The speaker seems to be addressing a lover, and something between them has worn out.
In the last stanza, the language breaks apart, with the opening lines scrambled and fragmented. It ends on "eat the magic light," which could be surrender or a strange hunger for escape. The mood is restless, nostalgic, and slightly dizzy.