It juts out by the river road,
traffic passes it each morn,
what’s left of the old aqueduct,
something stately, yet still forlorn.
The rock, with no mortar, was set
so fine it would make Incas proud,
precise enough to still hold up
today, and centuries from now.
There’s a display with a picture
of how it looked in days of old,
twenty arches spanned...
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