Who were you, Lucia Before the choir Before they carved your name in stone And called it holy fire Faith in your mouth like broken glass You swallowed it, you held it fast Lucia, Lucia, Saint Lucia born in Sicily. In the Swedish streets, we sing traditionally. In white bedsheets, eating saffron and remember, In this dark month of december. Do you know we chant Your dead name in a marching band While you bled for what you’d been We dress it up, we make it clean Were you a light or just too bright For a room, that loves the night? Lucia, Lucia, Saint Lucia born in Sicily. In the Swedish streets, we sing traditionally. In white bedsheets, eating saffron and remember, In this dark month of december. They tried to end you, prolong your suffering They did all they could, to diminish your rights But all you wanted, was your last rites Lucia, Lucia, Saint Lucia born in Sicily. In the Swedish streets, we sing traditionally. In white bedsheets, eating saffron and remember, In this dark month of december. Lucia, Lucia, Lucia
