The story of Absalom can be found in 2nd Samuel 13-18.
"And the king was much moved, and went up to the chamber over the gate, and wept: and as he went, thus he said, O my son Absalom, my son, my son Absalom! would God I had died for thee, O Absalom, my son, my son!"
-2nd Samuel 18:33
"The tree of knowledge is not the tree of life."
-Byron
"We are sinful not merely because we have eaten of the tree of knowledge, but also because we have not eaten of the tree of life."
-Kafka
I've been hanging in this tree a long time now. Strung across these wooden joints are my own clear sinews, stretched and spared little by the gluttonous seasons. Of course the rest of me was cut down; cut down and buried in the soil I never had a chance to spread a bejeweled hand over and across. For it is not a little thing to govern over dirt and roots- they matter as well, as do the flowers and the melancholy songs of the grave. That is what I knew and my father did not. And yet he reined on, and I am still here, swathed about a naked tree.
The locks of raven-gold have still remained, and so I am caught up in this world, and watch and sway the branches when the breeze fails to appear. I thin each year, for the birds have had their own need, and the wind at times blows a heavy gale, and as I rest here, I see pictures of places I have never been, names of lands unknown: Cairo, Cairo; desert-dunes, water echoed in white sheets where the air is still and cold, merchant ships with flags unfurled; the falls of Lisbon Hills. I have journeyed far, and these strands are now my seed, and in them I have traveled and traspessed and will ever on, even after I am gone.
We used to tie knots with the strands of hair we found strung though the bird nests. I was young then and frail butterflies and sparrow wings flittered through our hands; we let them free and watched them fly; averted our eyes when we felt the air go limp and the work of our hands falter (even then I was reluctant to admit defeat). And years would pass, and there were times when I would sit in the garden and find myself watching a butterfly waft through the air; a butterfly I created; a butterfly with wings of threadbare steel.
But no one has touched these strands of mine for a long year now; no fingers have played with these tresses beloved. There was a father once, and I did love him. But what are we but mere illusions of choice? I had to turn against him, it was my place and duty, as was his to bury my body and leave my remains to hang upon this tree, the bones of brighter days left to dry and creak in soulful chimes with each fistful of wind. You hear them now, do you not? The chorus you thought to be crickets, that symphony you danced to- those were me.
But I do not hate him. Did he not weep for me? Did he not call my name and wake me? Oh, yes, I heard him calling!
...Absalom, Absalom! (Even now he calls.)
What child will not hearken to a father's calling? And so I came to life, but could not go to him; the tree held me. What fools are we to be ensnared by nets of our own making! And mine was made of wood and many other things; these limbs do not bow down with fruit.
And long did he come to me, to stand beneath this tree. And I blinked and winked with a thousand eyes, and waved with a thousand lucent fingers; yet he saw me not. And no butterfly could I craft for him, no mourning-morning bird could I send to bring him joy and bitter memory.
He has gone now, for sleep has been his peace, not mine. My peace has gone, it blew down with the unleaving of this tree; even that last leaf ran far from me. And my only peace now are these unshaped flies of chance and birds of prey that I have woven in my mind. And if I had a hand to shape them, I would. I would send them free and they would pollinate this now-dead tree, and in the exchange I would sleep at last with the flowering of these bare branches about my thousand eyes; round my thousand fingertips.
And I would not miss this tree. Not then, for it has grown darkly upon me, and I have felt a weight unknown within its limbs and roots. And that is the mystery, that I am still here, and he is no more; a fell tree unfallen I am, it seems and may be.